On my back
at the bottom of the well
split open
looking at the sky
the cooling breeze
on the inside of my ribs
makes me think
there’s a hole in the well
of course
that’s why it’s empty
and I’m bleeding to death
instead of drowning.
I hope I last
long enough
to see the stars.


That’s all

The summer has come
and heat
and solitude
cessation of searching
potential suspended
surrender to fated separation
and nothing new?
I’ve failed
and survived
and that’s all.
That’s all.

You got out

So you got out
for a while,
for a way.
Out of that blackness
have the demons stopped screaming?
Did you find a niche
out of the howling wind
the cold tearing wind?
Ah, love.
Such bliss
even to see it.
Let me think I played a part.
I never knew love like this
pain like this
but you got out
and I can accept my place
in exile.


The tigers came again while I was sleeping and ripped my belly open. The wine didn’t keep them away. I can’t tell anyone about them, and they know, and are laughing. I woke up and hung out my washing while holding my guts in with one hand, wondering if it’s a good thing that at least I’ll have clean underwear for when I can take a breath again. Or if I’m just folding my jacket neatly before stepping in front of the train.
I want to be held, and you are right, your comfort is a poor, weak thing. I’m right too, there’s a universe in your eyes. But I want to be held.
I can’t tell anyone and you are all I have. Sing me to sleep, dear catcher. Sing me to sleep.



There’s a long afternoon
there’s a kind of peace
a lengthening of the waves
from jagged spikes of
breath snatching pain to
something more like a
pleasant, if nostalgic,
boat-rocking groundswell.
Over the horizon
storm winds howl
ships are sinking
people drowning
but here only the
pleasant rocking if we don’t
think of those depths.
A sunset is coming
the light is fading quickly now
for now it’s warm and still,
the dust dance sun at it’s most golden
right before the cold night to come
who will have a fire
and a love, and who will just
try to find
the sweetness in yearning?


I’m through the looking glass
clocks are melting
the past is a cliff
and the future just a pebble in my shoe
the bedrock is cracked
love runs through
a thin trickle
the vultures wheel
on dry air
so choose
that desiccated freedom?
or the dripping pitch black below.


I build a shrine to you
a little hut
from whitened bones of deception
and jagged glass shards of searing, lacerating truth.
Inside, a piece of the sun,
the only sun
the only warmth
pulsing like my mother’s placental blood;
and these words inscribed at the door:
“Cleave to this. Fail, and worlds fall”.
I failed, and worlds fell,
providing copious rubble
for building and decorating
my hut.