Monday, 10 April 2017

Seasoned

Drunkard at the door, mother isn't home.
Pedophile is hysterical.
Cockroach ashtray couch,
methadone bloodstream, man.


Policeman at the door, mother may I marry him?
push his wheelchair through the mall,
feeding him insulin,
round and around..


Stomach turns again, clinging to the bed.
Stealing glances at yourself, mother isn't having it.
Your staying in all season round.




The day had a hole in it


Tuesday, 10 January 2017

Against the wall

I prefer the shade,
when no-one's looking.
Put me in the corner;
hands between plates,
a newspaper.

Upon the mantle,
a hardy bunch;
stalk kept straight,
mulched and wet,
yet so loose, almost collapsing.

Next to a cabinet: three animal masks
mounted on the dining room wall;
the winding hall and then the door.

Thursday, 29 December 2016

Mothertongues

Mothertongues guarding christmass-rose beds
Heads struck songless, pictures without souls.
Birdbeaks, bird eyes; curious and alone.
Feed a fly watching the meat you carry,
Hurry, hurry along.