Thursday, 24 February 2011


things about the house shift to take on new forms
in new disguise, newest devices under weight of dust
and more,

old news to me but in store for her an adjustment
of meaning, just things now things to impress,
now dusted clean

of old skin and that which the skin cemented,
like when it was fresh, keeping blood at bay
beneath as it pumped

the familiarity of everything around my everyday
body, to now every web denounced and toenail clipped
and more.

Thursday, 10 February 2011

Uber Sperm

Blood rushed to my head.
I was dizzy with anxiety
as she said the words.

I imagined my little men,
donned in tight blue suits,
wearing a tail red cape,
flying away from me.

My own little uber sperm,
explosive twice, not once,

they've betrayed me, the little bastards.

Selfish, selfish gits.
Only thinking of themselves.


The Softest Spot beats bilinear,
directions of selfishness and arrogance.
I pull your hand out of my wound,
blood escapes and I watch coldly,
you talk and paste your hand to my stomach,
I don't talk and I keep your hand there,
the hole above pulsates with lost blood,
heart shrinks, bones reform, skin grafts
across the empty lungs leaving a scar,
which I stroke, realising your hand has gone.


I place the rose down and like how it reminds me of you, how it always reminds me of you. Not just because it was your favourite flower, not just because of the literal references; how I connect it to instances of you – the smell of you after a shower or the colour on your cheeks in the cold. The rose is where your memory survives.
                Today is a wet one. I stand here in my mac, trousers slowly becoming skin, and rain like a gauze sutures my face to the elements. I breathe in the ozone of storm, the freshness of grass disturbed by rain and feet, and the oppression of low clouds, grey and full of potential.
                I like it when it rains at your grave; you always loved to splash in the puddles – and in the plush green of your resting place pools of rainwater await your stomping wellie-filled feet, and will go on waiting. It comforts me to see life here, to know the rain is seeping down through the mud, past life, regenerating, aiming for you. And to see your gravestone glisten as new, like day one. It reassures the permanence of you.
                This is you now. You beat me to it. One day we will both be grass and mud, soil-fodder and feed for growth, but you will be first. You wait for me in the science of change.
                The rose is a representation of what you were and what you will become.
                The stem supports the flower, it is a vessel for all the things that keep it beautiful; dripping with rain, propped against your gravestone, it holds the head high as it collects with a sheltered gentility, mists of rain within its folds, its bright red folds – curtains of blood shot with the entreating vortex of infinity. Like you were, it is complex and has, upon detailed inspection, whirls of blood, deepening into itself, too much for my eye, too much for me to ever know.
Past roses, in varying states of failure, like limp sentinels or ghosts of sentinels, rest beside your gravestone. I asked for the roses to be kept, so that one day you would be with what was once a rose and once held by me, all soil and worm-meat.

The Gathering

                Compartmented us,
devised into groups and finished with rose-
wood, apart, together, blue-
prints of a deathbed imposed upon tradition;

                a family of funerals, made
with years of rings in the wood of trade,
today built for a funeral in-house –
we measure our hours with grief

                and plane them until tear-
marked and smooth, a section at a time,
tasks delegated; polishing the handles
that we will hold to carry it, fining

                the finest finish of edges,
tissues of sandpaper burning our eyes; we
must not wipe our noses on this, nor
count the grief in knots and dovetails

                as a father sets varnish to brass
and a mother holds his hand over hand and
spreads the gleaming light to the coffin-sides;
sons and daughters standing in reflection.