Friday, 25 November 2011

To the Young in Black

There is in me the blood and the meat;
this skintight force of breath and light
that in breathing, breathes, in breathing, beats,
the perpetual machine unwinding tight.
Born on rewind we spool apart
our entangled ribbons of hearts and hands,
playing the play and repeating the start,
each dawn is secondhand.
Until death - we uncouple,
before the last uncoupling,
wherein the heat of meat turns cool,
with breath unwound departing.

Thursday, 17 November 2011


The pen leaks all over the page as
usual ink cradles the dentures
pregnated molecular frozen rivers of
nothing this far in, far out this nothing
seen and sent and understood by
readers my stress de-valued unspun
into an ocean I cannot reel in or
frame this as is more garble than
sense, like life entangled threads of
thought, she is missed more than other