January 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

c’est si bon
c’est si bon

c’est si bon!


fingers like water run

back like a kitten

one eye open like a blood

c’est si bon

At odds?

January 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

love and linseed oil
are both taken with potatoes

women and cats
are not birds of a feather, for one
eats them, the other
feeds them

men and mice
are a far cry from
each other. one being feared by women, and
the other,
feared only in winter

when no
warms the heart and
heat come only
the hands


January 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

To commit to disappointment is to bind your foot in flaxseed oil.
Awa’, as they would say where he comes from. Awa’.

‘Ma mither n’er had any o’ that.’

Neither did mine Robert. And she was the worst for it.

le poète semble:

January 5, 2012 § Leave a comment

baissés. en fait,
il écrit
le monde sur la crête
d’une montagne

le ciel d’encre noir
crache bas
le ciel crache sur lui

une nuit soudaine, vient
avec un bang! l’écran de fumée
devant ses yeux

et les mots, comme des étoiles
entrez les nuages.

où sont les murs, que
nous devons


La vie en Bruges?

January 4, 2012 § Leave a comment


January 4, 2012 § Leave a comment

She writes the best letters. all stuck down
with rose tape and containing pictures
of Romans on penny farthings
flattened lollipops that ooze over unyoung
openings: dear katja, dear michael.

on one hand
there’s the markings of old biro
where it leaked between her middle
and forefingers. cuticles splashing in
an inky grave; wrinkles nurse
words dyed into folds on folds.
wrist frowning, veins ski down knuckle

on the other
there’s the thumb. always holding
dog-ears down, traceing line after line
of narration in wiry righthand
pushing creases into letter-centres
hunting for blunders under Private Eagle Eye
the Third.

Enter here:
water, hallmark, white zenith of word height
known. signed and signed again,
to and from. clean-cut replacement-

her realtime iron

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