Tuesday, January 25, 2011


I plant forests, and they wither
behind me. There’s a traffic light

in my heart. Which colour? I don’t know.
The high-pitched whine circling my head

isn’t a vulture, it’s my halo. My double haunts me
in windows and lakes; the size of his eyes

erodes my mettle. Wherever I travel, metal
detectors go mental and the stink of burnt

sugar stalks me — crackling, always crackling.
When I fuck, my mind drifts. My whores

say it’s a lack of friction. I guess I’m made
of cold blood, my skull is full of earwigs,

my visions littered with wheezing stars:
in the mirrors on the ceiling, miracles

have ceased. I blunder across these bitter
nebulae, hemlock on my tongue — no wonder

I’ve got the sniffles! Only a nightmare
will help me sleep tonight.

(published by Otoliths, 2010)