The End

Maybe it was just a slip of the tongue
but you seem to have re-written,
the story of what was once you and me;

put as much distance as you can
between then &

Your eyes,
the smiles & the all that time spent together:

eventually the touch of all those memories
will disappear
& only the faintest trace
will remain…

can believing a lie make it a truth?
because I believe in the lie
that you still love me too;

the heart beating beside me every night,
that heart belongs to you.

Wherever we find ourselves next,
whoever else you let into your bed,
the feeling is still in my chest.

What we do

Why do we do this to ourselves?

I will make my way to you

All night we will talk &
drink wine, while outside
twilight will silently deny
colour to the flowers of your garden.

Inside, we’ll remain ignorant
of all this save
for some ineffable sense of

as we talk & laugh.
drink wine & then,
we’ll fuck.

It’ll be fun
but through it all,
a loneliness will prevail:

The distance between us
is too vast to measure, & we
know that it won’t last forever.

Why do we do this to each other?

Mother Mary

What do you all do with your days?

No, seriously
I want to know.

Me, I just seem
to let the minutes fade
& watch as the years run fierce
& true like mercury through
fingers destroyed in the process…

So here I am again
letting the rain
wash over my face.

What do you all do with your days?

Me, I wait
until the sunlight begins to fade
& then,
with alcohol, chemicals & weed
in place of rosary beads,
I begin my sinful prayer,
which goes like this:

"Hail Mary,
full of grace,
let me talk
& fuck the night away;

because I need
animal reprieve
from the shadows
no eyes can see."

& mostly she comes
(though I must admit that,
despite my best efforts,
sometimes she doesn't)


Mother Mary
never stays with me:

she is not mine to keep.

She belongs to no one,
& there are lonely demons
haunting her dreams as well.

So I smoke yet another cigarette,



in the rain,

hoping that this time the
water will wash me clean.


For a day or two
a warm green taste escapes the diesel fumes,
the heavy air hangs low &
pulls us close
enough to hear electric whispers on
                        the wind
announce the verdant birth of Spring…

then routine returns to smother it all
in bullshit:
becomes just more white noise we all ignore.

Spring soon ends & then, somehow languorous
                                        yet sudden,
sullen evening light of summer
begins again another doomed attempt
at bringing colour into every hour
of each dilating day.

Autumn begins: I hear
violins, a sigh that heaves from
as the light takes on a melancholy
tinge: austere admixture
of fading green & deep orange
as the once-whispering wind
devours the trees.

Now snow falls like dove feathers
laying quiet & still until dawn’s frail purity
breaks beneath our feet,
the mixed-up air already containing
greater darkness, low hanging Sun;
the light still bright but bleached out &
clouds lingering white phosphorus,
as if
the winter sky is a war crime above us.

Every year becomes this:
the flower’s imperceptible blooming,
slowly turning
towards decay;

slow to remember & quick to forget
how the season’s elision
fucks with our head(s).