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


I fuck you open and
I beat you shut again
The rest of the day
You spend with your mouth shut and your skull open
Every once I inhale a fistful of your hair
While you molt in patches and shiver within your collar
Or I lean back to cross my ankles at the small of your back
Or I tug the happy tongue from your throat

I forget you every night and every morning i remember


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.


Some man has left his
cleft palate on the beach.

I see this writhe –
his single lip

Cold and clammy,
shedding salt tears,

he is a hose at the back
of my throat.

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.


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.

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.


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