I read a street sign.
it was written in German
and I’m not in Germany,
but Gott ist tot
so nothing makes sense.

The corpse’s awful stench.

I’m afraid,
we killed Him apparently
and without a she
there was no baby.
It’s up to us now
to find the way
even though
the street signs are German.


Look at the veins
of this heartless city
lit up by you
on your little trip
pumping along roads
that are broken down,
packing up, giving in,
it can bear the weight
of your journey
less than you.
The least you can do
is put on your light,
add to the beauty,
look pretty
from a distance


Every beauty spot,
like glorious gods
scattered over the heavens,
explored by my lips.
They let me hear
the sound of universal mantra
in the Delphic steam
of your ejaculated breath,
I find in your exhalations
the exaltation of oracles.
My hands read your body
like sacred scripture
inscribed in braille
and find there my truth.
I will count my prayers
on the beads of sweat
strung along your spine,
to find you and myself
bound together
like leather binding
the holiest doctrine.
oh oh so holy
oh the glory to glimpse
in writhing delirium
momentary transcendence.

The unamed shadows that I’ve glimpsed

I decided to write a little flash fiction. A story no longer than 55 words, for a bit of fun. Here you go:

I remember when I was younger and I’d lie in bed staring at the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. Wide-eyed I’d watch footsteps go past and block out sections of light and I’d wonder who all these people in my house were when I was the only one home.

America is my Daddy

America, old and erected
pierces the skies
over New York.
From his towers
he cries out orders
and sets the standards
for ruling suburbia.
He gives me the dollar
for new toys from China
and stamped on my forehead
is where I’m from
and I’m not his son.
I’m not his favourite,
he turns his back
while I eat cold soup
from a Campbell’s can.
I try to talk to him,
my voice is squashed
under the darkness of Africa.
I reach out to America,
because he has stardom,
golden gods and goddesses
of the silver screen.
I breathe in his smoke
when he grabs his lover’s ass
before he leaves
for his work in the machine.

Daddy don’t leave me,
Daddy listen to me.

He came, he conquered,
he fathered the world.
Master of the house,
his house of whiteness
and discipline and order.
He likes it in missionary,
His missionaries invade
and take gold, diamonds and gods
for his mistress.
He thought I never saw,
distracting me with new toys
and things that sparkle
like Hollywood’s stars.
Those new age storytellers
liars and tricksters, his fools.
My Daddy is cheap,
I heard he steals
and bullies
I heard he doesn’t love me
and he never will.



Fallen God

He lives in my mind
in a very strange place,
a sacred space,
that I first desecrated.
Where I got on my knees
and worshipped,
screamed to gods,
bloody heart on altar.
Now he’s free, far away.
Ganymede in zenith
immortalised, cold stars.
Ancient Greece
in the present day.
Please, don’t let them in
to take your treasures.
They’re shooting-tourists,
don’t know you
like I think I do.
Maybe you’re fantasy,
a myth to me,
a collapsed colossus.
In slavery I built,
whipped and chained,
that never happened.
You’re ruined now,
in ruins laid down,
so they prey on you
where I once prayed.

Us, in significance

I see your brain as this galaxy,
he said to me.
Beautiful, complex,
I’ll never understand it.

I hear my alarm before it goes off
the sun hasn’t come up,
it’ll go down before I’m home.
It doesn’t revolve around you or me.

I’m no galaxy, no saviour.
I’m a wanderer like the rest.
My eyes are still red
from this morning and the next.

You’re pretentious, they said,
but I’m not pretending.
I know that I’m not
a galaxy or some king.

I’m a kid of postmodernism
whatever that means,
but so are you,
not that we had a choice.

Dancing in circles,
like everyone else.
So maybe we’re all galaxy together,
bunch of old star dust

and we haven’t stopped swirling
motes of dust, moving.
Stagnant we’ll lay
and we’ll suffocate.

But we don’t know where to go,
from here, let’s go
and keep the pendulum swinging
between Cézanne and Warhol.

It’s all the same to us,
because those posters hang
in the dentist’s office
on a screech-drill backdrop.

Move [in]significance, [in]difference,
choice maybe beautiful, complex,
maybe you’re the galaxy,
we’re the ones we don’t understand.

Touching Confession

Touch me wholly,
tell me your story
inscribe it on my skin
let me taste tales
of where you’ve been
whisper your sins
with no prayer-musty screens
breathe into my sight
your heart drumming
along your outstretched neck
goosebumps wave over
aroused and arisen flesh
I’ll take you in now,
beyond previous sacraments
of the bodies you’ve taken,
and count dots where
The sun has kissed,
and where they have,
but now I do and touch you
into wholeness, holy,
wholly put back together
pieces given and got.