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July 31, 2014

She still stands
on the corner
of Memory Lane and Salted Fields;
a Snow Queen in the making,
balancing our futures on narrow heels,
waiting for the blonde boy
in brown stockings made in Soviet
to bring her the magic mallet,
so that she can smash
the terracotta army of yesterday
just to get some shards
for her flower garden

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The burial of a dog

July 24, 2014

The ground wouldn’t cooperate.
Shovels and steel spit clawed
at dry soil and rocks.
The earth was resisting
like it didn’t want the paws
and the tail
and the ears
and the cold carcass of yesterday’s love and sticks chewed into splinters and begging for table scraps and jumping to lick the face when you come home

Like it didn’t want pulling on the lead
and sitting on command
and play biting a bit too hard
and voiced discontent when people come home late in the night.

Steel sings its own song when it meets granite.

If there were sparks, they were invisible in the daylight.

Salt water from the pores
was mixing with that of the eyes.

You have to be methodical in your movement when the ground’s this hard.

He wasn’t alone, but in the end
he was the only one always there
when our dogs met their silence
in their cardboard coffins.

A her story

September 9, 2013

I was supposed to hold the hands
of boys with dirty knees
But I kept finding paper hearts
And then you rang for me

The gifts you brought to woo me
Were empty as a brand
But I was like a giggling girl
Because you held my hand

I wanted just to cheer you on,
to kiss you for your cheek
But when you came despite my pain
My voice was way too meek

I told my dad I wasn’t late
and that I played alone
But daddy guessed the truth and said
“Just tell him on the phone”

I couldn’t understand it!
My future’d been so bright!
But in my womb a time bomb
Was racing t’wards the light

There’s still a month or two to go
Before we meet the day
When tears will pierce the silence
And I will make you pay

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December 30, 2011

It was a Tuesday,
when we tried
to dive back into dreams
we’d left behind
like burnt out matches

That day we ran out
of the fire we needed
to burn all our notes –
a frail attempt, a step,
to start again;

you see –

the fire wouldn’t take!
our words
were made of steel
and in the north wind hour
when we woke
(to whispers of the dawn)
there was no burning,
only frozen laughter

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
closed
their eyes,
even for a second

Meet me

May 5, 2011

Meet me
at the cheap table in Brussels
when my cigar has ran out
and my glass is half empty again.

We will sit in silence,
drinking slowly
Then I will reach out
to touch your lips and
you’ll tell me
That my hand smells of smoke and
that I should stop frowning
all the time

We will sit while the breeze
makes us colder and colder,
debating
whether the tattoo on the waitresses’ wrist is her only one.

Then you’ll tell me 
that she’s probably a slut anyway,
before we settle our tab
and walk home
through the empty streets

Love is always a palimpsest

November 23, 2010

Love is always a palimpsest
and Joanna erases and writes,
erases and writes

Long ago Daddy
secretly told her,
that the solution was simple and cruel
Like a dress of nettles

She gave me her body
like a lottery ticket saying
‘Win truth!’.
while her youth called to me
in a siren’s voice of false memories,
but I saw her turning the page
as I started scratching

Fold another airplane Joanna
You have forgotten your father’s words.
I have no sympathy for your troubles
I will follow your lead
and eras

Heathrow express

November 7, 2010

Emerging from the underground
Dirty and wormlike;
morning sun scalpels
my eyes
with tender claws as
I refuse its caresses
heading for the train

Three hours of sleep
clutch my brain with mean
dumb fingers
and I want nothing
except to travel through the sky
In a majestic tube
of beauty
and accomplishment
and my grandfather’s love
for jet engines

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

Later,
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

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
blushed
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
face

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

Suzanne

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
when

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

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
bodies
(here you will pause thoughtfully)
existed to be used, we didn’t know
then
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
matters
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)

Invitation to a bistro

September 16, 2010

Meet me again
Under red lights
In city full of gas
Do not breathe in at all
Until we shake hands
And walk
To a noisy bistro

Our broken conversation
Means nothing if
a waiter doesn’t interrupt
At least three times
In quiet testament
To our joint want
to find the other side
of every coin
Before the dealer lifts the cup

Then;
who undresses who?
I you with eyes
You me with hands
Later, When cars again
Shroud us in gas
We can discuss this

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September 13, 2010

You were a good girl once
I am a robot of words
Your silver fork sharp
And my mouth wide open
Feeding me was a travesty
Unless it is oysters

Forget I play guitar
I will forgo your skin
Forgive my world view
So I can disobey
But maybe if you call
I will text you: ‘bark’

The smell of yesterday’s sex

September 12, 2010

Daylight again
Filters in through dirty curtains
The most intimate of evidence
Still drapes the sofa in
Love’s merciless fallout

Black Choo’s still lie discarded
The silence spreads
Over plates of muesli
She pours me coffee
Which I will not drink

The smell of yesterday’s sex
Still fills her apartment
And I become a dog
Begging mutely
For her flesh

‘Why do you still come in the mornings?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know how I mean A’
‘Blow me’
‘No, really. Blow me’