Poetry Archives Bio
January 3, 2018
10:02 PM
exorcycle

To Michał Minicki

the bills are paid  the cocktails left behind
illuminate my face in the dark glass

the gym is cloudy  someone shows her ass
her legs  her tits  in a deep stretch entwined

and I must wonder  as I speed amass
whether the dog is barking in the street

whether the rolling fog is at my feet
or in my mind

January 2, 2018
9:45 AM
George

I water the plant on my desk
his name is George

when the water seeps
through his small pot

George reminds me a lot
of moist earth after rain

on my desk at work
on the sixteenth floor

George quietly sits
in this city insane

December 24, 2017
9:14 PM
The Twelve Days of Sickness

Inspired by Jess Nicol

On the first day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
My heart burnt to the third degree.

On the second day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the third day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the fourth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the fifth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the sixth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the seventh day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the eighth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the ninth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the tenth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Restlessly sleeping,
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the eleventh day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Grumbling and griping,
Restlessly sleeping,
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the twelfth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Empty homecoming,
Grumbling and griping,
Restlessly sleeping,
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

11:43 AM
desmond doss, spiderman

To Rod Moody-Corbett

exact change is a matter of life and death

the city is empty
the loudest cars still belong to the blacks

the jets fly overhead
the boys and girls play separate sports


the old man paints a picture of durian gay
using nothing but crushed hibiscus and gasoline

the black army mom in the red KUWAIT hoodie
waits for breakfast

here you must carry it all with you


your trash
                your sadneʃs
                                   your precious bodily fluids

near the old graveyard
a little way from the centre of the village

the diver falls into the umbilical deep
the moon is here with him too


the vomit bakes in the sun

the gentle wind reminds the poet
of the smell of tatami mats and old things

the colourful offerings lie on the altar
the priest beats a drum while intoning a prayer


the childless couple offer gifts to buddha
the goats dance towards the clock above the exit sign

the army bros brag about poon tang and cash
the self is revealed high on the ferris wheel

(beware of cars with plates that start with why


two boys play too close to the side of the road

the strange man imagines a faceful of shrapnel
running after a runaway yellow ball

the poet laughs sincerely at his fate
as it begins to pour

December 19, 2017
2:55 PM
a promenade on combustible garbage day

I start my tour at boobies tattoo
on koza gate street

the american helicopter flies over the city
it has been raining all day


saturday
is the emperor's birthday


i recollect & observe (or the other way round
trying to write a cinerary phrase that will recall

these people's readily frangible faces
a national nightmare made manifest by time


a tinny version of für elise
announces the arrival of the garbage truck


I break the legs of the king crab
with an audible krek

one man shouts kuruma!
while the other gesticulates wildly


the rainwater flows down
as I climb the hill back to the hotel


December 9, 2017
8:56 PM
an apparition in yellow

behold the man!

how he dances
on the head of a pin
   how he spins

   transfixed by hatred and fear
   how he comes and goes
in deliberate throes

how he quietly sneers
how he's wildly sincere

now he elides his own alteration
now he's quietly flying

   now he sits down in desperate frustration
   now he gets up in triumph

season's cretins!  shoes & art
a dime short of three fifty

   he's a marker of all plastic parts
   he's unknown to all autumn boredom

he takes in all the sounds
his apartment coming to life

   water
            gas
                  thermostat

he performs his postmodern postmortems

   he's surrounded by fakers and liars
   sniffing always at each other's butts

   he's a desperate despot looking for queens
   to crown and caress with much glee

when—look!  past run (better than prostitutes!
these mothers  they fuck for free!

but no  he has much bigger fish on his dish
so to the low flying shoulder's wink sprite

   he whispers  quite careful and low

   there's no place like the night
   there's no place like the night
      there is no place like the night

November 29, 2017
11:47 PM
Completely Disfigured
To Isabella Zhou

Farewell madness
Hello madness
I am moving on in the rain
I am moving on but I am not here
Left behind at the table
I want to jump on the treadmill
To practice my goose step
But the girl's collectible tin soldier
Quotes from The "Great Chatsby
My flesh hangs loosely on the parlour hooks
My fear is telescoping forward through all history
The feral woman slowly milks my mind
And then delivers me my coup de grâce
A right hook smack dab to the jaw.

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