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A shot of cinnamon across the dancefloor,

turning all eyes that mark her into coals, popping her,

she has heather in her heels - wild and witty and walking purple,

incense spiralling like the good L.A and driving down,

she could hijack the whole of the USA, bottling Bukowksi

with her laughter as her work, and her drug as her rhythm

and her spooky sister soul in the flick of her blue feline.

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My skin is sliced like infidelity;

a reptilian heart sourced by an alchemy

that is a brute - a violent mercury, gilding

memory with speculation and smothering arms

in deprivation of sheets. The eye is an Atlantis,

a red funeral sea, with thousands of scales

advertising sirens, raped with lament, and the pupil -

a learned black bird scarring the sky -

is a spectacle like the c...

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"rose"

sprouts from a soldier's lips,

stretched out on a centipede's back,

knowing every coroner is a breathe navigating

myself up a spider's bath.

Our words are lovers, my love;

a path of slippers whispering, lost

traipsing in fierce barnicles,

communes of moths hurting in the dark

painting memory with a lick of tact,

longing for sleep and the labyrinths

of us

and the rust of promises...

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She is a fizz of honey at my side;

A sweet glue of kin, with laughter pluming like autumn.

She is a dance of spaghetti;

A mouth of tendrils, tripping ecstatic, a pulley system of frolics.

She is a wit of epilepsy;

A bewildered sculptor vexing all the clay around her, valid.

She is an armour I wear,

A  friend to bask in, when all around me, sharks.

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The burdening serpentine, voluptuous as the cradle’s scent,

Moves like a cemetery, devouring the lightness

And it must be.

A glass augur navigates love, a fog horn hermaphrodite

Touching the abyss with maps for lovers

And anchors like heroin,

 But must it be? She the feather and he the bird, dancing

On archaeology, binging on caresses

Wistful of a sound escape

From the eternal...

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My speckled tongue, vicarious to a seating plan,

shackles my woe,

marring the ache with a masochistic

Catechism and starching the tears, resolute

for an angry nun,

with bloated aubergines for knees,

to rest her doubt on me - the wholesome home for blasphemies -

and palpate the pulpit for a family.

I whistle, locked, in the invasion of the irreverent embrace,

and my sin is smooth lik...

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I, the irritated aborigine,

stalk my flank with your appetite, with a hair of bulrush

as permanent as your map’s wind.

The two coined Berlin, and the pupil

in the roulette,

I mark your history and ambition

with a foe, melting as the wedding night

does in a lover’s hands, and a mutation

for house arrest.

I speak in brine and barks, and I whip

with keys; a resolute tempest

like the dar...

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The sun stalks me, reaching out for my pale limbs,

to advertise the empty marrow, the vestibules lanced

with exorcism, and I cuss to hide the spaces around my frame

with make up and laughter stirred by bourbon.

I raise my shoes as bloodhounds; pointed nozzles to a scented gallop,

and a heavy slave, I am, to the friendships scratching, my skin

strangles, an optic stock of nerve fluttering...

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The coil of summer is spent and in the cold, we bruise;

a roll of litmus papers, tears acidic in the night. 

Here death knuckles, grit bites - the fever of our jaws as we repent

our steadfast boots, our gallant wooden toys, our rampant

springs of duty. We swallow hard and taste the theft

with every buckle around our waist

and every scar stitched onto o...

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The ground is reckless with muses; gravitated surrogates

for winter, the frosted females are shamed under foot,

peppering the sole with token orphans, catalogues of red heads

and brunettes, dried, silent, under damage control

arachnids,  slashing the slothful firmament, furrowing

cheek to chest with bitter noses and hasty games of solitaire

to warm the guts when al...

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The pills are worms

lining the casket like calligraphy, opening up the body

like a repenting tulip. The bed is a moth racing cheeks

like a crator cradling an aeroplane with sand bashed on light;

the space is cut,

orange

and ripe.

With head of bull growing inside out and arms and legs

of china lambs, the pisces

groans in liquid skin, cursing gravity

for its strong embrace,

wrongly rea...

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Dedicated to all the micro shaven millipedes,

Faxing furtively for allies,

            There is no cease fire for autonomy,

We give you this keyboard. Love it well.

Dedicated to the belching run of Interactionists,

Moving through the morning

Like a soiled free newspaper –

            Pick up the America.

            They eat the keyboard

And all days, a Spiro grap...

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It purrs for recession, exacting loss

as a glucose for fevered solitude,

traipsing in the mist with dignity

as inked as a lily. Rousing that

Bastard I, it visits memory with satire

and it feels good.

But not for long.

Baroque pilgrim to the taste, he does not swallow

all her fleshy cancer,

only the ones that give him occupation

to love as bodies pray: tangled up

for reflec...

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There is a bride on my body,

syringed, after the hundred rooms,

an amusement to snort, a bone matter

in a human, liken to paradise

In veins. She is a shot, this cake mix-

death certificate; a white pharmacy

to pupils. Mercury voiced a blood cell

arresting Hate flaccid, and all quasi

governmental brains quicken love

and make hurt, God. My tetanus

gathered in a man with sympathy

...

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She rakes in her string, her birthday honeycombs,

with her scantily matter of apron, whistling grandiose soliloquies

to the moon. She eats phone calls with a tick

and sieves the words like gravy, oozing over

your plate; all fresh, all flesh, participants to this autumn

suffocation. She smiles when your belly

drags, your swollen head nestles in her bosom

and shows you girls in veils. ...

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I am of age.

The air is fecund  with voices spitting clay,

rendering my flesh palpable for fingerprints.

My waist is slight, you can hold me like a glass,

drink me, for I make you tall.

My insides are esoteric and I know.

I am part woman and part fable;

every movement you mark is a moral

but it finds a lie on me.

I mate with fevers, blind and with

custom, I get sick for you

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I had a dream I met you after slumbering in some red field.

My eyes were ripe with hurt. For your smile fell heavy on my shoulder,

thick with piety and diseased with grief, stretching out

over white crosses - the bugles in the barbed wire.  And boys

who bit suicide, and dragged their corpses in their head,

skipping the scythe in white heat, trembled  on the cheek

I kissed. Somme  long  t...

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Snipers racing through audits underline phosphorus love;

The breath on your eye that clots the world,

Spreading the tar wide and the air is thick with hands.

Some embrace like straight jackets, some kiss with The Finger,

Some use music for stigmata,

                                                And I break down.

Each Great Divorce walks with hope in these moulds,

Snatching mirrors that ar...

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I was a child, I was a child; the visceral hands flush the petals through the eyes, willing the sheets

 white,

Memory groomed by the sickle in the eyelid, a compass ignites.

I am soil, I am soil; the wreath of poppies gurgles the Mitino Cemetery down the pipe, tucking in

Kites,

Mercury coltish limbs brass-rubbed, specious premature night.

I sing acid, I sing acid; the candles of skin, ...

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My son is a remission.

                                The Depressive Position

Fights train noises and roots the day as the companion

And I lie like a flat plastic bag.

                I am a redundant jam jar.

We, the walking wounded perceptions,

Take

All the time

Pining for the womb.

               There is Zen in the bed

and we roll empty rooms.

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ennui: fastidious athiest, shuddering a vaccum as a scream,

gives bread and water romance; a proletariat of emotions.

Labotomy: synthetic memorial becometh I, a dribble from

Cartesian genie, pissed.

Nirvana/Heaven: pain and beauty abolished. Kiss Me Stupid.

....

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They are a concert of glass and their bodies are shelves;

filaments of wax coating daffodils, they stand leaning on their staff

with an ice age that leaks to your nervous.

They do not forgive with flinch, they do not offer rapport with fear,

they eat youth with beauty and with glance as a full head of hair.

They stand in your gut with their stoic, and roost with Lenore,

they do not knock, th...

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The Olympic of mourners, fairing black as answers,

arch the cemetery like a secret garden of winter,

turning all death into a plate for life else where -

every scorned leaf, every jewelled web, every moss on shovel -

is a man standing.

Every brittle breeze, a prayer. Every stone, philosophy.

Every death, a marriage.

Every hearse is hoarse and every buckling sob is an architect

for the A...

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So -

the spitfire creased up in my shirt

is lucid after all,

but  it is such a fevered jade; stripping lambs of their jewellery

leaving me circumsized in the mirage.

Pain is a heroin, an orgasm to mourn

and I find it everywhere: veins robust with violins, winds sharp like romance,

and words that

drip like prayers,

but most of all

in that

community flooding your eye sorely,

w...

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I walk in awkward noon, without warrant or petri dish;

I take with shyness but give with honest, waking in cyanide.

The sleep is torched.

I, the recession, am vacillating like a moth's wardrobe; agitating the womb with suns,

I hurt in dark and light, each perspective abandons my bare portrait/cameo

with the threat of love and I cry the jigsaw that poured from every gaping heart.

I lean...

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My brain becomes it's own orbit,

drowning memory of the

Lust and Found.

I know not my name, my home.

I am an infant breath with teeth of kelp tapestries:

glass slipper/private nitrogen, a picture frame for amputations -

every walk first is sin.

There is Hitler Youth in a hour glass

and chapping my ankles, the leaf is charred

by an iron fist, a genocide in a priest -

are we all circumst...

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Chamber voices -

she sits in fours;

porphyria morse code stained

in free falling, this is Sarah.

Librarian stripper for Edinburgh's plate

and that holiest of holiest: teenage hands. Mostly female.

Drawing pins in every eye that coughed you  up in therapy,

you grow words beautifully

and your mad heart is a glorious universe.

This is something to fall pregnant.

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the flower on the crucifix

is soap on a rope; rations of sixth form

diseases glistening in dark nail polish

and glue,

vintage self harm,

bloated suffering egos,

all covered with that cloying scent

of erected starvation

and the sun pisses on you and behold you are the man.

The roses grow internally amongst the opium fields-

artichokes, cactuses, icicles, all split the arteries, and the a...

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Every day is a child

with thunder shaming fingertips;

 the messy musings through the tedium of algebra.

The red anchors clog up the grooves where kicks

are sped by popularity,

sometimes the stomach ache is real and comes at the end of the day,

but more often it is chewed up over reddi brek.

I find premature history

when I feel my wooly hat

amongst the commuters:

when did I grow up?

My h...

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the felt dresses the libertine skeleton

who scathes all meat as cancer,

cold air took the plate and hands are glass

with lipstick marks,

the carrot dangles

like a corpse of sin

and turning away, a figure tuts

and teeth litter the path.

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the train meets a mecca, cackling like a river

displaying a thirst

for brine, and rhymes

with the black sponges overlapping each other

and sisters and brothers

all gather round, and we'll listen to the sinnerman

driving birth into the ground,

down

down

dow-

n

symbols clashing, and piano necking

a nicotine

spleen

uh ha uh ha uh ha

rain dancing.

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Cellotape concubines dine

with speed that jousts my yellow pages,

I spit the bit, the tonsil rages

and the anvil bangs my eardrums in half...

goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,

goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye;

my siren wrestles through the ages

and the public

solder the cages.

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Languid pupils glaze war

Scraping sermons for

Dangerous pilgrims

Making tight bodies

Around red salutes

Distracting the gold Cheshire's lipstick.

Lawn mowers of

Sam see that

Daughters are raped

Munching rice hard;

A time not happening and

Dust forces settle.

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sprouted wings of pearl carved by coal

and eyelashes saturated

with apocalypse,  turn away, run away...

...back down the bellies of evergreens

and sleeping,

the face can be beatific in Freud

eggs

almost pregnANTS

in the jeans

that fingers hate with seams.

i want some sugar in my bowl,

and though i like the tapping,

we get no where

and your face looks

alot like mine

in the back of ...

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The heron is strangled;

a lice of plastic and newspeak

is lucid on the feathers.

the river is corseted and oars are tangled

with naked dice and beaks

tethered

for the sea -

the barbed wire scorns the lighthouse

for wanting to be free.

The bone of the whale

is brittle and when the shrimp collapse

the world strikes hell for me.

My feet are bound up as dyslexic tail,

and my rock is cr...

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Echo said

to make the guitar the bridal bed

and no matter what time

the fingers cry,

I'll paint the summer around your head.

Narcissus said

that May is in my veins

and you digress in shame

I love an anger

that blooms in a watery grave.

Please go away.

Away, away, away -

Echo faithfully sounds

and to this day

she glides

where death

and love

are clowns.

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Stumbling about the wreckage, the courier

slips down my ankle

and I never believed her

when she said that the river bred

love affairs, swallowing each host

lost in compass curls of wandering soldiers,

each novembers gave birth.

And of ours, our reds ripe in fields back home,

clutching voodoo dolls of us and you,

and tumbling down through all these bruised knees

I never thought I wou...

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Good blue bulging from the wrists

decadently serving china red,

meth formed sugar cubes piece a vase

to water the sad brain.

Good blue voices choral a record stack

sipping coffee cried in the back throat

of the jilted and the spilt

water of a sad stake.

Good blue to the lover's back

hurricaned in soles clipped

and frustrating on those lips; frozen

bold sad statues.

Good blue i...

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The light - a dominatrix to speculate

silver forrests sheening backwards,

scathing showers and vacuuming rainbows;

Dew drop delicious to

eighth grin beating like sex

slowed to perfection as a painting

that smiles.

Limbs are liquid

and

Death is cool

to one who tempts the backyard in well,

leaves brush the thigh and

throat

and silk is sleep. Honey will be

suffocating your spine

like...

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Flaxen hair, un adieu, warrant for limb arrest,

chemistry haloed around tied wrists

praying for honey

and swimming through toothless tears;

we have milk for garden.

Letters like varicose, tattoo his story,

and gold, reproach, left behind

sometimes under children's limp arms,

who queue up some place ours

where we have milk for garden.

Butchered, empty Heimlich,

and shaved raven cir...

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