hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

holy mother cow

With such and such a mother
You must act
As though everywhere
There are your mothers

Life is one line
Its brown, untangled hair
An alien beside
Your own
Matted and hell-bent

Kindergarten afternoon
Only sun sharing faces with
Teacher faces
Stranger faces
Children faces
With mother face

Everybody the line
To home’s version of punishment
To home the injustice

Pension of bitterness
One must to thank for.
Cover disgust with mild smirk.
Return to prostitute joy.
Enjoy acid dinner.
Air crimes under cross-talk.
Prostate before the court.
Water pet plants
That water only spite.

Lifeline being
A day maybe
A day away
Overdosed on time
She sheds her last
You the last her

Lazy chrysalis!
Only years later
Her ghost,
Craving plastic cheer
Airing only
On the charity of your
Vacates her cage
Of rotting scabs
Leaving only
The unpecked few

a suspect lack

We were five of us,

Out in the pits
Running to a

Doused coldly by
Youth and

Into undergrounds

Boiled sweat

And darkness

The iron of arch
Rich and sinicised
From drugged and below

Sluiced by sand, spit and dirt
Flirted open
By neon words
And sealed by miracle

In the cheapest
Illicit cinema
Darkness stolen from
Yellow films

We were five of us,

Hours of richness

French imbroglios
From den towers
In the fledgling of town

And then

Swooped upon,
Us down,
Taken back home.


A child’s pleasure
Runs warm with quick

Specked brown at nest’s edge,
Whilst the nudist beach
Rackets under silk spray

Dirty dozen radio
Cakes the flash,
Backlit naked colour
The shutter.

His paint calms

Multiple lobes of sand

Constructions of flesh
Lope and jangle
Under terror of sun.

Beside, the ocean
Strokes always, gasps,
Land under water.


He flew into the hill
With the sense of meeting.
Into a stranger’s bowels.

As a doctor, and
Acquainted with disaster,

The rock was home.
When the acid mountain spit
Below the fissured smoke
In the sinus of the port

Stone creased and
Arranged its lined faces
So he slept still.


The impasse between men
I handle like glue.

My house the frame dotted
With flies, the hill

Drenched silly in dialect

Not recognised, grass
Overflows as i bash,
Howl and somehow

Make understood myself.

wing closing by angels

It is horror for an angel to cry,
they are much too ancient things,
their skins dispel water,
and the tender of their eyes rot easy.

A crying angel wraps himself
in his wings and fluff.
The hairy grotto is dark,
but angels have perfect night vision.

In this tradition of humility
the angels amplify the wrack of their pain.
Every feather bounces,
the dust mites come out to play.

But last night i saw a gospel of angels
weeping together under black stars,
Wings amok in a yawping circle,
fire before their feet.

And it must have been us.

If he lay his hand upon his cheek, and held his neck oddly sideways, and closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that his hand was someone else’s, and five seconds would be lost in bliss, until the carpeted ghost of a breath whisked his nape into a hopeful buzz, and whose rebuff electrified his into slapping his limp arm off his face.

A virile and convulsive shadow behind me scrabbled, to the ground, as it mauled up the steps and rutted away from the brutal roman sun, spitting and wracked under its own puissance.

the überbelly

I swallow the world
and it rises slowly back into my mouth,

giving me a sour pre-urine breath,
lined with clumps of pork and Africa,

the sauce of my many faces,
the atoms loaded with taste,

something we all cannot chew,
something we try cannot muster,

something pathetic, devoid
we are no purpose, unlit by glory, ignoble.

the author giving the text the right to kill

No one wrote me, this.
I speak for myself –
i am a text
you did not know that, only
the image of the Text.


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