hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/


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.

come death

Impale me, you have
a stern and ample phallus,
it will do to stopper my shame
or important secrets i think to have.

I like when
my dish does poorly
and my stomach is punishing
to a negligent wit.

With the bright burn
of stitches and acid lacing my ribs
and the star of vomit deep my nose
i babble more clearly.

Who is my author?
who forgot to hand his text
the right to kill when i retained two days
to observe worlds explode in my bladder.

Am i guilty?, or –
Is an affinity with suffering?

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.


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