November 6, 2011

I want to carry you like guilt
into a room
smelling of dust and books.

Like all the yesterdays we drowned in,
the mattress on the floor is a truth
waiting to be obscured
by the veils
that protect our songs from the streetlight

then you’ll remind me
that at night
the words that you say
become the oaths that i live by
until I die again

and I will reach for your lips
watching your eyes for danger


A story for Biscuit

May 16, 2011

So Biscuit,
your daddy, he goes
to east London on Tuesdays to
a rented flat
in a house of brown bricks
where children play cops and robbers outdoors in the summer, and
women gossip and hang laundry out
their windows to dry.
Your daddy goes, Biscuit,
and knocks on door 22B

She lets him wait, Biscuit
She lets him wait two minutes, maybe five and then
opens the door
in her knickers,
lets him in without a word and he enters
without a word

So he comes in, Biscuit, and the flat
smells of smoke and her perfume
(like heaven)
Her black skin reminds him of coffee and gold
and her ass sways
as she walks to the kitchen
while his palms sweat
and his fingers burn

He grows hard, Biscuit, grows so hard
that he thinks he might die,
that his heart will stop
And Biscuit, I don’t know if he even
still likes her,
but a girl’s gotta live,
and daddy pays rent and he fucks like a prince.

When he closes the door to 22B
two hours later
he knows, and she knows
that they never
their eyes,
even for a second

66 Wardour Street, W1F 0TA

February 15, 2011

Freedom’s open till 3 am.
Then freedom closes.

Freedom opens again, at four or five the next day.
Hours of freedom,
as long as you can afford the drinks at
nine pounds a pop.
The laughter of the free is pearly,
their movement your movement while their longing fills you until you’re bursting with freedom, longing to burn the bridges or fuck in a toilet stall,
to the beat of a girl who kissed a girl

Freedom’s open till 3 am;
then freedom closes
You feel the oppression when
there is no freedom to be had,
and you catch a quick cab for a quick rub and a quick death and a quick goodbye,
coming home to an expired milk carton and
laundry and
email and

And you long for freedom to open, even if it will close at 3 am

Losing count

February 2, 2011

She met me at the end of the long escalator
where I was spat out,
hat and coat and bag and all
(A crosser of borders if there ever was one)

her feet were planted
on separate tiles
of the train station floor,
And I wanted to count them
(just to see if I could)

The station lights shot re-used photons,
aging my eyes,
while she led the way
to the freedom of tunnels and the steel caterpillars
that cost one euro eighty to enter

I hummed an old song I had heard somewhere else
and it went:

“She was script
waiting to be written,
A fruit to be peeled
I just need a napkin
and a quiet corner”

Hours later on the floor,
Empty Walls bounced our soundtrack
into our faces.

By the time we fell asleep
The room had already cooled again.

In Rome

January 25, 2011

I show my passport to an unsmiling
guardian who waves me through,
cross the border in silence.

The light falls somewhere else.

I cast no shadow as
One foot
then another
takes me towards the Centre
of the former empire that built roads.

Calvin Harris is in my ears and he gets all the girls
while my “I’ll be there soon” shoots out into the ether to
prime her embrace

Soon our lips will feel unfamiliar again,
and I will still smell her on my hands while
carries my bite marks back to the land
of beer and lawmakers

My dog barks in my memory.
I want to close my eyes
But the view allows only for wonders
as time
stands still,
while people exclaim and exclaim,
over coffee and wine and statues and houses and roads
that carry the weight of our photos,
and the fountains that swallow our coins

Death or dancing, pt2

November 17, 2010

She will spread her legs like a goddess
eyes clawing at me, diamond hard;
a Virgin of Nuremberg screaming
‘I’m yours’
whilst clutching at straws

There is no talk of escaping –
Her body is a lie bigger than the American Dream
and the only road open to me goes off
into a darkness glistening
with a threat we all crave

She says that the poor are weak, 
and she means me;
I need to travel her
like many men travelled;
their bones and their balls
now stacked at her crossroads


She spreads her legs like a goddess
and she’s damaged, like me. She thinks
that we’re dancing, she’s wrong;
we are dying, both of us.

Her painted toenails mock me
to come inside and
it’s hard to determine
whether this is divine retribution
or intervention;

maybe a bit of both.

October ends

October 31, 2010

I do not see
how a dawn spent warming
my body against hers
shifts blame,
when my hand meets her
and she moans instead
of calling the cops

Never have I ever
and other games
have no meaning, when
four empty bottles of red and a quart
of Jack are the kegs
in our bowling parody –
hit the floor
and air leaves lungs
with a grunt

Desire turns dark, smells like
paper secretly burned in the toilet when you were five
with stolen matches.
This must be love, this must be;
Growl, leap, for tonight
we understand
the longing of the centurion

Go back to your boudoirs, strangers
Tonight we march. Our cruel games
are the pinnacle of every hymn
sang during vespers and
we do not heed your calls for restraint

You have one new message

October 28, 2010

I want to enter
in an Orca’s pool game of
‘smack the trainer’
while Seaworld watches

Undress in silence
daughter of songs,
Your golden years are not forgotten


I want you
to be the one joke I remember
As I repeat you again and again
until we cannot stand


The sound of your name,
And the sound of my voice
sicken us both

Meet me: Pt. 3

October 10, 2010

Meet me
In the apartment on X street,
where we used to watch
grainy reruns of Dallas,
and talk of Deleuze
and get drunk
on the weekends

I’ve still got a key
and I hear that it’s empty.
There are still weekends
and there’s cheap vodka,
but they’ve stopped
the Dallas reruns
and the philosophy reading

I will sneak in and wait,
so that my breath and my steps
can echo sharply
between the walls

when the empty room
is warm
from our bodies,
You can tell me
about your daughter
and I’ll say that
your eyes
look three times as tired,
as they did
when we met
by chance at the station

About understanding

October 3, 2010

Rosie was a mamas girl
and a papas girl
from a
family of eight

sharp as a razor and
determined to win
tough as a bullwhip,
with her life in order and
healthy career goals
a good catholic upbringing

This was
before the rediscovery
of vileness and alcohol and
that cold words undress them better
than praise
I was drifting
in those directions
and my words already wore
the bullshitter’s mantle and the ribbed
condom (for pleasure) and the fool’s
hat and
my balls were dice
with one chance in 36 of getting laid

We met at the zoo, where the bars
kept her just out of reach
for my nihilist zebra
and my horny monkey
and the dingo that you cannot
train because it turns
on you
and she said:
‘Anton, you are full of shit’
and it meant
‘I get it, and maybe there’s love’


October 1, 2010

on the metro,
seven stations to go
Nobody meets eyes;
Asian girl reading Cuelho – she
is so serious when
Veronica decides to die again
and again and again

She’s serious and suddenly I’m bitter,
like the shit you eat at work; or a
beetle chewed behind the
school building, certain that somebody is

the five of JD on ice on the train
didn’t reach me – I’m still unfound;
but back in my city a
Hipster girl swings from the pole
robots have
made holes in her stockings,
holes which will never tear and
the whole group of them is laughing
I’m not laughing, I want to get drunk
and porn and Lady Gaga will
wage a battle for my retinas

A hotel room in Frankfurt

September 28, 2010

This room
has a lamp and
a bed and a bath and
silent walls that swallow
every insult

They ignore me
like they have ignored countless others
In this room where
sheets are crisp
and the rich
and the corporate
sleep and eat and watch CNN and porn

But one time
the walls
and the bed moaned
and the bath sighed
and the ceiling sang
songs of sweat and gasped breath and
stray hairs in the mouth
while the carpet could smell,
could smell! her sex on his

Those lovers kept the light on
just as I keep the light
while the TV
at me
in a different kind of facial
with a broken remote
and no off button


September 26, 2010

Suzanne takes you down
Goddamn hard too
Launches herself –
an unfilled lover
a housewife in the making
a restless hen looking for a cock
Her shoulder hits
you straight
in the solar plexus and
you lose your air –
a choking sensation of panic

Suzanne takes you down
in a sharp application
of fifty five kilos
of love and frustration and
men are bastards and
obscenities when she fucks
As lawn receives your body
and her body
locked together and tangled up
in a different kind of intimacy

A man, whose mother/wife/daughter recently died, meets a famous illusionist or stage magician or wizard, maybe after seeing a show and bribing his way backstage afterwards or maybe in a bar or in a hotel lobby. The magician/illusionist/stage magician, who is also a man, draws the man (whose mother/wife/daughter recently died) in to his world. First with intellectual discussion, then high class parties with people in the entertainment industry, and bankers and loose women, then sex, swinging, group orgies, alcohol, drugs, perversion of all sorts, laughing gas, pain roleplaying, sadism, the wearing of masks, body control, contortionism, yoga, asceticism, deep meditation, religious zealotry, gambling, psychology, herbal medicine, holistic medicine, acupuncture, pornography, comic books, line dancing, verse reading, shopping, dating young women (and men), dating mature women, et cetera, et cetera. In the end, the man (the one who had lost the mother/wife/daughter) leaves the company of the other man (the illusionist/stage magician/wizard) and is somehow wiser, richer with experience and has a lighter outlook on life.

Question: Does it matter that the man (who had lost a mother/wife/daughter) has developed a foot fetish after the whole experience with the second man (the illusionist/stage magician/wizard), and if yes, please quantify the annual budget, necessary to maintain a linear level of happiness for the man (who had lost a mother/wife/daughter) over X years.

On atonement

September 21, 2010

When the alley you pass every day
has already become
a balding testament to the fact
that you are not naked on the inside;
When the lone candy wrapper
bathing in colourless autumn light is
crumpled just right on the kitchen
table; when the last
string of steam has curled from the cup
carelessly left on the floor next
to the yellow sofa,
when all of this happens, and you stand up
and say:

‘We were determined, but so naive,
we were proud of being young, our
(here you will pause thoughtfully)
existed to be used, we didn’t know
what we know now’…. and so on

When you say this, I will stand up
and agree
that we had something going
that the eternal question of
who was fucking who
that I miss the smell
of you on my fingers
that yes, I apologize about the car or
the dress or the dog or whatever
and that I’m incredibly goddamn
fucking sorry that I wasn’t the attentive
friend you needed on saturday mornings

(Originally for CombatWords)