undulation told in the bathroom
a liar. house settles between
finished and tall, and tall and
unfinished. the first howlings
of the year. bathroom shudders
a drip tap told me. to fear is
a fiber thing. houses are really
large woodwind instruments we
chose to live in. unfinished shows
us this in gale force, a low calm
pitch, resonating a window. left
open. fear is a fiber thing. as is
the rolling bucket. the slow sliding
then the silence. a little gasp.
undulation told the curtains it
was a liar. closed the doors. made
a little room, of stillness. sat. drank.
washed it’s bleeding teeth.
folded dirty clothes. ate a cake of soap.
undulated. said i was a lair. unfinished
house next door sings like a flute
i wonder if it confuses the bats and their
whether it sounds like their mother.
and they begin to roost in her chest chamber.
it is not fair she
said. I flick through
the moments and it
dominates the frame
here. I chose the
angle which would
Solid face of white
stone ,little windows
(all cut in so tidy, so
beside). I liked it. Liked
the way I would get
lost inside. I know. It
isn’t fair , I want
to see you too. I’ll
watch the little windows
cut. I’ll have to go alone.
I send you the picture.
tell you I took it
when in fact,
it’s dated week
and six days
you will notice
It’s not fair she
said. I know.
i can’t explain
i just wanted to cry
and you wanted a cigarette.
that’s when tears started
it gave me shivers
my whole body moved
we laugh because they are funny.
later. the river looks so dark
leaping a little far into
from the rain
we talk about floods.
as the red light curls
with the gold
you’ve never seen it from this side.
only the water seems shiny
everything else has lost its luster
better when it wasn’t legal
better when it was free
i told you already that it was shit
i told you already that it was fine
once we’ve reached queen st
just on feet.
we close our eyes to the blaze
right. this is a shopping mall
sliver woman with no vagina
(i know cause i checked)
(you know cause i told you)
do the lights turn off?
do the manikins ever see the dark?
are they always bathed in white light
and does that make them angels
who is light like this for
at 3 in the morning.
at the last bar, they serve me
but you’re the only one complaining.
we drank Tanqueray when it wasn’t legal
we’ve got better tastes
on the train i look at my reflection briefly
try to ascertain the moment when my iris stops
but i can’t.
people all look at me
and i can’t
when all the carriage doors are open
facing forward and say
i cannot tell when i am turning.
because you see it happen elsewhere first.
sometimes i can’t breathe, but
i see it elsewhere first
they watch me
and i can’t
600 meters to fire hydrant, if it doesn’t add up,
speak with governed throat. who owns your eyes?
eyes stare a parking lot
scribbled on the concrete, save the trees.
i guess the cars mean they didn’t.
who owns your hands?
walk this way. have a break, have pure
brandy. learn to walk with bottle feet.
you won’t slip if you just sit the fuck
down. who owns your feet?
boy sitting at the bus stop looks at
me and says. nothing
today the clouds look like they are leaving
back to sea. but then i saw her mouth
she owns my eyes now and all of their
on seeing, the ground did not immediately
on seeing, it remained still and green
the sky remained ribbed and
on seeing, the sky was so
blue with the
of your your back
on seeing, boy you
stretch hands like
you once did on
you walk with weapons
on seeing, this does not
matter , to walk to
which lingered where they
on seeing, everything is still
on seeing, you walk
away from me,
and i sit, with the place where
it happened , wishing
just simply, walk away
on seeing, i am the calm
of a body , invaded.