How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

I would like to see again the cowherd with his long face and high, cool eyes – crescent and crisp as fruit slices on a china platter.


I wish to go to woods, that are wild enough you can see the shadow of neanderthals in them. I must see thrown on their brackish fur the handprints of the great ferns, cruelly green, half-baked in orange from the torch that cries primitive red rain into the cerulean bowls lain eaten into the soil. I must be able to spy the great dragonfly tiptoe with his infinite crawlers up and down the frond, each rustle of his smudged wings the urgent shudder of a cymbal. I should see on the ground fresh tracks with dark dips of water before them, where the animals’ waters ran from their mouths as they scrambled from the top half of the alligator lain upon dark water.

mountain can’t mountain shan’t

in my close
handheld worldjar –

you say there are mountains
otherwhere in the world
and wander i do not believe

outside of my stale earth
from which only human hand makes metal grow
how can i know stone to
heave or spit or smile or
tease formless air

where could be
a hungry maw of rock
hungry enough
to thrust the jangling
rich white teeth
into the socket of the sky

when the wet sparks rain,
how, with shameful coyness,
can earth chill with affection,
twist into the sun all in anxiety,

and passive but conscious
feel the light
as a lover’s knife
flay naked his open body

dead earth to fight the sky
it fights me –

a motion only
God’s fist could achieve

Please have worked.

the voyeur

i was fucking you in the grass
and she stood
and then took a picture of us


I have not come here to spill for a long time – I am sorry.


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.


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.

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 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.

If a cockroach were huge it would be a majesty, all hull and armour and wise bristled eyes and a moustache –– but because it is small, and slides into its home the Dark, i shall continue my shrieking.