Let spill the sizzling hilt of sword

that dams your flooding blood with steel

the lapping blade, its greedy stains

which bring the coping rain.


My vision blurs, I sink and swirl

and every cell within.

my poison will never win

I vomit ink to cure the meat

of pages of empty sin.


Make me a steak of refusal-fate

and I’ll spit in my hand and grin.

I’ll slay whatever filthy hound

would cut my bile with gin.


I don’t know who I am when all these wordlets nip my skin



Ah! I propagate such worthless states
I kindle hearts with eating-haste

I sip the silver lip of eyes
The gourds of flame, of fire and ice

I whirl the spinning and purloin their stares
I whistle and whip up the ferryman’s wares

I catch my breath on the current of thought
And my oil-slick heart bleeds — a lot.

Happy Nothing

Happy Nothing, my love!
Happy Day of Extra.
I hope your No-Holiday 
is kind to you. 

I just wanted to say
In a special way as we celebrate
Ordinary Day. 

(Normally I’d have a gift for you, because you deserve it, but seeing as it’s always Nothing-Special season here
It wouldn’t do to shower you with gifts. Others would wonder
Just what’s going on. I don’t think they see how splendid No-Special-Celebration-Day
 [also known as every day] 
is with you

Because you’re always with me, so how could they?)


It is nigh on impossible

To creep about at night, desperately trying not to wake your parents, when you are wearing four dog tags 

Chained about your neck like a claim to life

And three of them are entirely unnecessary, and you are wishing fervently that you had not wistfully clasped them on earlier that day;

But it is far too late and too quiet now to remove them, and so you walk like a swaying tree

Leaned back, tilted crazily

Trying to keep the jangly bits of metal pinned to your chest,

Silenced by their imprisonment against cotton t-shirt,



Wishing — ever so fervently that the tiny beast that guards your parents’ room will not launch into a fit of yowling at the sound of your 



about in the hall. 

(Go to sleep now, you tell yourself! No more poetry — the night is sick of you!)