the bit of you that I took

when our skulls collided

in the dark, too fast

both so desperately clumsy

happily awkward, but still

I saw your eye sockets hollow,

your zygomatic processes pronounced

over your stupid beard.

Time always got away from us, didn’t it?

I lost a contented five and a half hours, and left

always right. (stairsteps) You won everything

but me, I lost the peace of you.

things will end before they start

I hate to do this, I really do

I become odious in my own heart and mind, so guilty

of not trying to help when I know it could be needed

but there must come a time when I stop

giving chances away and let myself have one



just to be sad, not saying it wasn’t hurt,

deleting your absence and not reawakening everything

after a lonely hand reaching out once

in a very blue moon.

(always after a few drinks.)

later than it should be

we’ll look back on this and say

it was apparent from the beginning, reframing perspective

but believe me I

know nothing of myself.

Bitterly afraid of choice,

we laugh at nonchalance –

always that sweet sorrow:

is this the last time? will I lose you

by accident, you slip away into a snowbank,

fall back, eyes glazed, swiftly buried

and I forget again

not because I don’t love you,

but because I cannot hold this hurt.

wise fool (what is the point of art)

Maybe my hands are smoky,

fingers count one, two, burn-pull

or just your breath hanging in midair,

words crystallizing between us, floating

out a frosted window from your teeth.

waterfire. a gushing sound approaches

my brush, painting hair out of my eyes again

green forehead, green eyes.

they are balloons of light, coloured with melodies.

I must use my twitching, twisted phylanges to birth them to this plane

so I am not the only one who believes in them.

april of last semester

if we loved the way that we were told to –

following that film mirror perfectly

 – you be strange enchanted, I, glowing naive,

cut the scenes with screams and yells

frustration exhaustion anger bitterness

all the days we can’t make eye contact.

would then that idol, effigy

the standard become the norm?


barbarian waiting

Is it wrong that I let others speak my mind?

though I am so unbelievably dumb – I would ask you again

to slap my face, but I cannot dictate precisely. What are these words that

my mind whispers? Even hinting at them

implies betrayal, but betrayal of what? of Whom?

are these shapes something worth mentioning, or

shall I still silently ponder,

in this spontaneous, aimless, underthought fashion?

Do you know what you have said or how it has been received?

Of course not. Never. We construct relations from that

which we choose to share, those facets

that roll forth when our die is tossed.

Even those who claim pure genuine expression as their own

are limited by their own tongues, which cannot

trace shapes in colour or even communicate some

internal form of unconsciousness:

We can’t explain our dreams in the morning.

Are we limited by intonation, inflection and implication?

quietly, my toes on a windscreen say otherwise

as we speak physically. I believe in hands reached out,

so I leave mine open-palmed and everything drops.

Perhaps, in utter black, we would see clearer

no longer attracted by these visual limits, but

borne on words alone, love fed outside of

all but the person. Perhaps then, honesty would be less trite.

In short, I am baffled by intimacy.

For that is really all we are – darkened blind figures reaching out, if we’re lucky

in a world we cannot comprehend. Logic will not love you,

Rational empiricism will not make you less alone.

These birds and bees restlessly flocking in your mind

must meet with similarity, or drown in the black.


How do you explain to someone that you are in love with everything they do?

Maybe it is just because I am lonely most days,

but I would love to bask in the shadow of your hair.

I’m trading love, not lust, just a taste

of your heart has me hooked. You’re my hero

In my little, mostly empty room of a world.

Come see the pictures I have on the walls.


I miss when

you would hint at reality,

slyly sneak in what your

heart was saying, indirectly

covered safe in your

reflecting, shining, rational

skyscraper of reason and logic. Emotion

was weakness, your eyes said,

holding yourself in with steel

and concrete silence.

I miss your heart’s lovely,

simple, broken song, the

chords that hold you

together and break that

glassy mind apart.

(but I cannot ask you to be that weak for me.)