water drops
     drip on rocks
          from the tops
               of tomahawks

Remember black winds of November nights,
rattle your bones, chill your marrow,
quiver time's arrow and rip the world's white
veil from a skeletal face. Throw
it. Watch it fold, caught on the cathedral,
high church of the ossified faithful,
whose whispered prayers will calcify us all.
Unveiled, the world is bones without a soul,
rattling as it grinds, creaking as it turns.
A flag flies / Calcium collects in urns.

I must precipitate their pain;
When I pass,
their faces close like shutters before the rain.

in the street fair
sun soaked air
settles
on two pairs of
hands:
one weathered, covered in
dry clay
and working at a
pottery wheel
and the other smaller, younger
sits in paint
splatter
and waits and
watches

Girl, with tousled hair, sleeps but swiftly turns the stair of her dreams;
Returns to reality.

Girl, with tangled thoughts, lets the room spin until she can piece it together like a puzzle-
She drinks ***** like a butterfly would nectar-
Starts with the corners, takes her time.

Girl, with tepid headache, sits up and observes a washed-out lunar denim blue clean her baby pink wall;
Snow fall.

People only mesh well with kerosene, each and every human so flammable,

It's a wonder we don't all set ourselves on fire...

But yours truly did it last night

Swallowed two liters of lighter fluid and chased it with jet fuel,

Ate the box of matches you keep in your purse

And burnt away the last good parts of my stomach.
///
I slept like a baby for two hours,

Not enough for lectures on the carbon cycle or dada mathematical deconstruction,

So I drifted off to more sleep, and slept to dream of the Six Gallery.

Wishing one or two poets would gain fame in an age of pineapple vodkas that no one is drinking for the taste,

But for gravity to pull through their very thin blood stream and feel at one with the party.

It's monotony—

I'll die and everyone will love me then, so where are they while I'm alive?

That's the joke of mourning,

It's the reason I resort to self-immolation,
It's the reason I dream everyday for fame and do nothing about it.

It's why Frank O'Hara got out while he could, dying with the true images of New York City

And not living to see it destroyed as I now have.

Emperors and Legionaries alike, take up your arms and help me overthrow anyone who dictates verse and meter.

I aspire to **** a fascist with my bare hands.

The train is a mechanical snake,
its hiss occasionally scrawled
above the grating of its own

movement as it cuts through
the smear of graffiti and concrete
and waste and dry bracken.

A single voice, “she was the
third fastest girl at the gala,
yeah she was really pleased”,

the voice enveloped by the
drone once again. The train
entering the tunnel.

The Financial Times lies on
the plastic table, the pages loose
from bored ******* bears the

headline: sacrifices required for ambitious goal.
Eyes trace the same paragraph over

and over, drawing nothing from
the coldness of the type script.
I think about conversation but my

tongue lulls in my mouth, dry,
and my mind wanders between
small talk and meagre pleasantries.

I stare at the man across from me for
what seems like minutes, knowing that
he knows I watch him, analyse him,

but there is no fight or pretence, only the
tired apathy and reluctance I know.
his arms cross. His eyes close with half sleep.

Television glows
blue upon my skin.

My head lies on
the static of radio

and the electric
of the streetlights

blaring through my
window keeps me awake.

The red digits of
my alarm clock

grow less vibrant as
the grey sun stirs

to the accompaniment
of the jubilant birds

with their repetitive
song which hangs

like these vacant walls,
holding me.