Pinocchio burns


i made an igloo out of\sticks

i told pinocchio it was a gift (for him)

he walked \inside\

…with awe

and wonderment…

then i lit on fire and watched it burn because i was fed up because pinocchio was such a sad boy

and he screamed\\\and wheezed\\\

and bits of him broke\\\and popped open\\\


(the strings curled like gift wrap ribbon on scissors)

and then

i got \inside\ with him,

curled up on the the floor and slept

Pinocchio burns

meat with beef: food/thought

meat sat with beef on the hill side

and spoke about dogs

he said in tones of grass and sky

they say that where we go to the place inside of what they call a ‘dog’ i see them in my dreams running like a tide of teeth and stomachs to sort through the little bits of ourselves

beef twisted his head and thought about this

beef thought a thought that he decided not to tell meat

meat continued

leaves us wondering what they do in with every little piece of the grey matter in the part of us that thinks about things like sky and grass and fences 

(there is also the tone and smell of a fence)

leaves us thinking thoughts like, is every thoughts that we have a little blade like snip snip of grass that starts to in tiny little moments strung together get taller and stretch till it dies and we forgets; are the dog stomachs really like our mouths how we munch at the little blades up high of grass (that touch the sky) ‘cept their stomachs they eats thoughts or the bits that think?

(there is the hotter tone shill and corrosive, a smell that burns red, of a fence)

beef thinks again, munching on green and staring at the sky

beef thinks about dogs (cause beef’s seen dogs) and thinks about how

the dog might even think about anything

meat speaks again

sometimes we tries to think about where all of the bits came from, but we don’t think we know…

meat lies back the ground disappearing to a sky pealing open like a can

there is a first thought that ever was and it was like this grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

beef stops chewing grass, doesn’t even think about what to say, just says

whats that?

meat answers

the mincing machine

(the tone and smell of the fence comes in waves of heat and static like wuuur wuuur wuuur)

meat with beef: food/thought

Some say that

some say that:

there was a tangle of wooden limbs that moved about in\\

\\disharmonious swing and throng, but then became…

more soft

some say that:

…it is a story about adoption\\humanity\\otherness\\assimilation\\de-radicalisation

some say that:

the blue fairy,,, is ideology, ,  , the blue fairy…is?

some say that:

…it came from the jack saw like a Frankenstein\\but wanted to stand alone without strings

some say that:

there was. a good reason it was made to \\be!

a bad liar

Some say that

High Tide

it hurts doesn’t it

when the tide rises

surges at the back of your


the roof of your mouth turns salty

all your words are shark teeth

and rusty hooks

so you sit with lock jaw in the bay

they press in with hands

they ask if you’re okay but

speech is always

dangerous here

you know you are


so you shake like an addict

till your muscles lock jaw

and sometimes you thought it would be


sometimes you thought

you could live without this

everyone sits more distant,

reminds you that

‘you’ve been so well for so long’

but they only disappear.


high tide slides back down your throat,

sitting heavy as the ocean tends to be

in your stomach

fishing line loosens its tug on your ribs

you smooth yourself with sand

you remind your heart it doesn’t need to be

held in place

no matter how well pumice floats

your mother comes back from hospital

staring at your washed up eyes

she always misses the high tide


High Tide


i want to say that i’m sorry

but i’m not

i want to say i’m sorry

but i’m not

red red red

speak in a tongue of night, (this isn’t really speech or language, we are just playing pretend, as usual)

like for example; favourite book, favourite album, favourite poem/poet/book of poetry ever

sometimes, i would skip stones across the grey matter,

just to see what exactly, mattered (if at all)

but that was when i didn’t even have a chance

red red blue red red red red red white (actually it’s cream dumbass)

two nights spent in the dark.

i didn’t really know what happened till three weeks later

then i knew, i’ve been watching french lesbian flicks, they’re hilarious,

but i can’t help notice that









see she told me that, the only stories about queer women, are stories about, their downfall…

i didn’t want it to be true, but i think it might be, and now i wonder

if somebody gave us the desire, to fall, in love, and burn everything

to the ground

in the dark, you filled my body with fire, like a furnace, and i coughed up ash, and wreckage, but didn’t care for tragedy, so i lent my head out the window and said i will re-write this story,

but then you twisted my head, to face yours, and said

but this is what i want 

the red the red the red and all the blue you have to paint


Charlie (a place called not me)



i am in the business/of placement

(Charlie coughs as three soldiers walk by)

i ask them to make some valentine chocolates to sell on the frontline

they laugh:

then they stop/Charlie’s eyes fall a little bit/potted pansies yield themselves to the/   space   /

‘a place called not me’

:it is thusly referred to/because if flowers aren’t self aware/well they told me there would be no sun/Charlie bites down on lip/i stare


my eyes exactly horizontal/to the surface of my coffee/the bubbles puckering the surface/like

like an old photograph in a fire

two old ladies bitch about us quietly/sipping their coke zeros through straws/their kept stares never

ceasing…(not ever)


…well then…

Charlie took the sugar from the jar/and emptied it into his cheeks/holding it:


waiting for it to slowly dissolve

(Charlie’s eyes watered)/tongue twisting/the pansies yield further/into

‘a place called not me’



and then

(Charlie tries to become a planet)

turning a sugar filled head 360 degrees to the RIGHT!/and twists it straight off with a:


red billows like a sheet on the clothes line (like the ones i used to make houses with when i was)


and the old ladies chatter like/serves you right/and that’s when Charlie says to me:

this sugar tastes like cheep gold

and I’m still not a god help me

/i cast a cold stare down and say/

do you remember what I told you:

ghosts go to the sun and come back golden/that’s why all the houses in the hills at night/seem so fucking lonely

…during the day

they reside in the sugar jars of over priced cafés/and/

in the coke zeros of old ladies

and i can safely say/that YOU…………………………………………………………………are my most favourite kind of colour

…but i won’t put you back together…

i stood and the sky caved into Charlie’s head

(filling it with space

and empty blue)


…and i leached out the red

from charlie’s body

to make jam for my toast…

in the morning i could see Charlie rising

a ghost of gold and blue

to stare down exactly horizontal

to us

as i renamed it

‘a place called not me’

Charlie (a place called not me)