Your warmth
and hope
and love
and pain
will be swallowed
bent backwards
in the labyrinth
of my disease
while I watch
like a vampire
loathing its
own bloodlust.



The echo of
the words you
still don’t say
is deafening
the silence gapes
the vacuum sucks
me in screaming
without sound
an empty void
as wide as the ticking
of the seconds
and months
between one breath
and the next
in this conversation
that will never
be finished
while my heart is
waiting to beat
my heart is suspended
between one
beat and the next
waiting for
your words.
Waiting for
the right time
and meanwhile


I kid myself that
this poetry ennobles
my suffering
makes this wasted
life less
dignifies these
tissues full of snot
the empty whisky bottles
and the cockroach-infested
sink. Some how less
pathetic, this ruin,
because look!
three people read these
lines and that turns
weakness and shame
into art.

I Heard

Did you call?
Is that your orgasm I can hear?
across however
many kilometres
but you were always
almost silent oh
fuck but I heard
it vibrating every nerve
in my body
it is ringing still
wringing me out every
drop you squeezed
from me now staining the
dirty ground that I
embrace like I embraced
begging it
like I never had to beg you
to take me in.

The look on your face.
The look on your face.
The universe in your face.


There’s a moment in the storm
When the roar of the wind
Is so overwhelming
It fills my ears like
Silence. When the violence
Of the tempest is complete,
It becomes a perfect
Stillness. Now the illness
In my heart is that storm,
And this is that moment.

My outraged guts

My outraged
guts demand
more junk food
more cheap whisky
to absorb the mucus of
my sorrow
catahrr of my cataleptic
heart oh if only
it could really sleep
perchance to dream
no rub
those new
extra large condoms
fixed that but
still it’s not you
it’s not you
it’s not
crack in my life
the blood seeps out
while the needle skips
and the pieces of vinyl
stab me in the foot when
I stumble to the toilet
bowl again to vomit up
my why why why.