a liar

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.

a liar

sweet sixteen

Talking of tremors

she has a green

bathtub. One day

I filled it. One day

I put old rose petals

in it ,she said she

didn’t mind. Even

when they begun to

rot. She used to

lie in it and watch

me brush my teeth

and when I spat

she looked a

little harder said

why do you get

such a long string.

I’ve had a lot of

mucus ever since

I was sixteen.

She sung me sweet

sixteen in her

green bathtub. I

couldn’t bare to

join her. She

looked at me in

the mirror. My

insides curled open

like flowers. How

they tremble in the

sun. In the rain.

but then she gets

up. Says. Get

these petals off

of me. I have a job.

I have to go.

So I pick them off

gingerly as she

brushes her teeth.

I drain the bath.

Clean it too. Lay

inside ,clothed.

sweet sixteen

you in the window

it is not fair she

said. I flick through

the moments and it

dominates the frame

here. I chose the

angle which would

communicate the

feeling. Affrontement.

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

that Thursday.

when in fact,

it’s dated week

and six days

prior. Maybe

you will notice

maybe not.


It’s not fair she

said. I   know.

you in the window

6:30 – 12:10 the next day (or, a punk prayer)


i can’t explain
i just wanted to cry
and you wanted a cigarette.
go then
that’s when tears started
it gave me shivers
my whole body moved
to riot
we laugh because they are funny.


later. the river looks so dark
and full.
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
white light
right. this is a shopping mall
sliver woman with no vagina
advertises handbags
(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
i know.
i know.

6:30 – 12:10 the next day (or, a punk prayer)

enough seen

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

enough seen

600 meter eyes

600 meters to fire hydrant, if it doesn’t add up,

speak with governed throat. who owns your eyes?

eyes stare a parking lot

wide! open!

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

her eyes

eye lashes


she owns my eyes now and all of their

600 meters.

600 meter eyes

on seeing

on seeing, the ground did not immediately

fall,     away

on seeing, it remained still and green

and grass


the sky remained ribbed and


on seeing, the sky was so

blue with the

calm ache

of your your back

to me

of indifference

on seeing, boy you

stretch hands like

you once did on

my lap

you walk with weapons

on seeing, this does not

matter                    , to walk to

own hands

(your hands)

which lingered where they


on seeing, everything is still

on seeing,     you walk

away from me,

the crime


and i sit, with the place where

it happened     , wishing

i could

like you

just simply,     walk away

on seeing,         i am the calm

blue ache,

of a body              , invaded.

on seeing