the cars outside your window
you think of them like waves,
the ebb and flow
of tides. the light flooded
the bed sheets and i stared
in the mirror at myself.
wine-stained shirt covered
my heart from yours. my eyes
begged for anything more.
more of you, perhaps. more of me.
more of the night designed
to mask the reality.
the cars sounded like waves,
your voice sounded like honey.
my fears sounded like snow.

if i had feeling
i'd think twice
before deciding to slice
so deeply
than i ever have before
what color is human flesh?
maiden pink? or true red?
maybe I have to rip through
a layer of fat
before I reach
what could be called

me

the daughter of Apollo
whistles back at birds
reminding them to stay close,
she knows that Icarus
was a dense
bloke so it goes, they circle
in the overexposed
sky and come back just
shy of the shine, and the cicadas
always know when it's time.
then she says, "come along,"
and they all know to go,
following the whistle
of the daughter of Apollo.

In a row, three generations
of prayer. When foreheads
meet the floor, Nanu
gets a chair.

Crickets shout through open
windows to break the silence
and silk whispers between
knees and rug to break the bows.

Nanu is too old to bend
to pray; you pull her up
a chair these days. There

are Stars scared of the night
they’ll see you flicker.

You and two mothers
sway, there is mango
and honeydew on three plates
and dates to break the fast

shadow crossing the moon,
the tides forecast.

a mantra: I can do
things that hurt, I can
do things that hurt,
three miles in, feet
in the dirt, trying
breathe in, cold numb
swim, trying goodbye,
hello, subvert,
feet in the river,
feet in the dirt,
I can do things
that hurt,
I can do things that hurt.

you're taking your
glasses off and living
in the blur.
you're punching the ice
of them, breaking
the rearview
while you miss your connecting
flight. why was seven afraid
of nine?

The Hideous Heart of Scandinavia

Morning in Oslo, from my hotel room I see many roofs
most of them of the same design; tidy, I wondered if they
employed a roof sweeper.
Social democracy in action cold and efficient not given
to surface passion, even their homegrown terrorists is
boring but dangerous.
Streets in Oslo are clean too so spotless they look
somehow defenceless and slightly obscene.
The citizens are restraint, tolerantly wait for traffic light
to turn green so the can cross even if no cars are coming.
But there is another Oslo especially at weekends
when people drink an enormous about of beer fight breaks
out and knives shine in moonlit nights.
The lust for ****** hark backs to a shared cataleptic
memory; and you know there is a pent-up passion
In the hideous heart of Scandinavia

my skin is rotting
don't feel like talking
All I do is scratch my skin till I bleed
listening to the songs you said were bad
I told all my friends that I don't like you anymore
but I lied
still meeting you tomorrow night
hope you don't see my
psychotic flaws
or my medication pills
I got my prescription filled
I tell myself act normal
before meeting up with you
it seems to be working
hope you don't notice
the marks
maybe I should get a tattoo
to cover it all up
I'm slowly drying into the ground
It hurts to breathe in deep
you'll still like me right
a little bit crazy
not too much