hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

Sakhalin burning

Did you know, for example, that your brain is a cancer? Sure, you may deny it, but of course you would, sick bastard of a virus – look, I’ve even grown fond of you. The truth, though, of course, is that we are all born with wounds in our heads, hideous holes that can’t help but be there, it is a defect, but a natural fallacy. And like typical bodies we send all our foolish antibody nonsense and whatnot to our heads, and when the skull has got so much blood and air and sugar it hasn’t engine enough to burn, a cancer to bound to form, stupendous things, that slowly take root and grow fine, long hairs and shock the limp body into obeying. This is the moment everyone dreams of, the only moment dreams are possible, when a baby starts to keen.
I have smelt rotting apples all day.

the only way

The row of rooks that face me are hooded, black-headed.
Their crossed arms bare their defence – they cannot logic, cannot listen, cannot reason or understand. Only the stubby fingers of violence moves them. Whence, now, gives them say to paint with red blood mindless spirals behind their step, or hold air above the heads of other men? Point – this is a mute, disgusting beast – of claws and matted hair and droppings lain over its tawny back. It grovels, smells the scent of fear – and then this beast approaches, dripping its gangrenous saliva, to the white corner. The white corner smells of fear. Every man has flown, at long last to the white corner, shrunk there and shivered with disbelief, painting the walls with the colourless scent of piss. Now i shrink there too. This beast cannot be reasoned with, cannot be talked to. He would fain die the next second if he could kill me first. He is possessed by the now, he possess now, now is his.

There are only two ways out of this house – i kill her, or she kills me.


The piece is a
Going into the war with
red women dancing to distract
soldiers grasping at old faces with
abandon – the last time
us ghastly and waiting
not daring to eat
– this last immortal moment will breathe for
unnumbered minutes as later,
A horse cascades in

Behind, before every dance production hangs the last, immortal breath – until finally we are thrown into a pit of lights, swear, stomp, and mount our swords.

a dog’s nose

I have a beautiful face, except for my nose. It is a dog’s nose, i have the nose of a dog, a dog of a nose. It mars my face. It is swooped and hooked too deeply, my two nostrils are nested into its mournful eyes and breathe hairily through. Armed with it i have a snout, which you sniff and release your piss upon. Now it smells so not-me i quash it off my face, twist its lobes and fleshy dual diaphragms, but it is soft and elastic, almost-wet, not yet a dog’s.

dis! gus! ting!

Cocooned on the seat before
in the fleshy circle of a slut and a rapist
Gnawing with awe-ful fingers on her hair
and kissing her too many moist times
on the nose, the stomach, the retching, spastic forehead
She came from her
She was forced into and out of
that stranger’s womb

An act of violence put her there
now only violence keeps her

a study of futility

In the first life he has landed.
In the second weight has sprained all his knuckles
he bobs in her hands.

In the third life he thrashes into flight.
In the fourth nothing gives
her fingers are a noose about his wrist.

In the fifth life he is let go.
In the sixth he is netted and spooned
from water into wetter gasping horror.

In the seventh life he wills out the heart.
In the eight his ribs are belted
breath demanded from below.

Truly, there is
No Exit.

Hell is – other people.

deep bass protest

the dead gong sounds
in the dead of the night

star-light wrinkled feather
and a burnt, dying-out fist-fight

delight people-flying
with a bounce air-tight

arm slight to the belly
on the hood on the car’s top-light

what height feinted moisture
over-bruised clanking screams “de-knight!”

takes-fright motor screaming
deep-bass morse-code writes

“I’m slight-ly off-duty see
you tomorrow, good-night”

slept tight
her head on the tarmac song

dance class

Thirty-odd girls supine on the floor,
each her own dais

she kneels and crows, half-naked
with nets of strings wound up her thighs
and leather mousetraps chewing open her feet

one hand flattens her womb
her face is carved too devoid for her neck to carry
with an intention so compressed she can
swallow a mouthful and float up

buoyed by each curving elbow
made to bend and carry
she trembles motherless under
white strips of dew
that fall, syncopating, off her breast

and prays the rhythm accepts her fever
prostrated in every possible
towards an altar
that shines back
every shorn

Story of the day : why, even, do i dance-class?

study of spasm

Pulled into meditation
producing only disgust
The face of the body scrunches
and dourly, escapes itself

Because any organ can only exit out of itself, through itself, into itself.

needle horror

I am sorry for the weight of this old betrayal. I know you have smelt it in approaching days, that wet rancid is clear in the stiff blood hanging idle-busy in my distant sour limbs. I can smell your piss and fear. Until now the news has not yet reached the heart, pray for me he remains a damp and bundled load i can lug safely to the tip of the block. The trial itself will be sharp and short and slippery, and after worlds will have been popped into place, edges of death receded by inches. The world will be clear, sickness spared, or ill, will not have worms in my gut or the sick fester that rises from behind the eyes as they gaze upon the suns of Cambodia.

But really – a needle stuck into my flesh and the sterile fluid squeezed into my new orifice. Horrors, i would rather die early unraped.

I have seven days, and by then i must be cured.

Brothers, sorry i have been gone so long.


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