yes, I am heavy-handed with / the garlic / with my lovers’ eyes / the finicky chicken claw caress that comes with not knowing / how to relax into one’s own being

—

I mated thrice with a cockatrice / all gamble / no artifice / a comb of eggs hidden under the flap of my chest /
I’ve been to southmere estate / and back

—

7.00pm / in the newly-minted / dark / I am being made love to / by an aggressive, sad cloud / she wants to grind my bones / to make her bread / and mark me on my neck /
leave me for dead

the thing about things /
is they can start meaning things /
no body actually said

fell into a stupor and I can’t get out / of myself /head over arse in something like love but much murkier

—

I found a black hair in the margin between my bed and the wall and it said an asian girl’s been here. or maybe an asian girl’s been fucked here. what is it called when one has an inability to recognise by-products of one’s own body? what are the conditions of embodiment? don’t come here,
into the 狗窝, the dog’s den,
my bite is worse than your bite,
I will harm you when I am trying
to keep everyone happy,
the worst kind of blade
is wielded inefficiently,
with a rigid wrist,
a waist that forgets
how to writhe,
a heavy sack
of something quilted
guilted into staying.

—

you’re fxcked up,
she says,

nothing added
to the compendium
of the history
of human knowledge

—

I fxcked up,
this is an admission
fxxxcked up all the way,
because however
moderate I try to be
in my politics
I still hold an affinity
for avalanches

—

my axxxx please stay,
vs.
It’s Never A Mistake To Say Goodbye

I don’t trust
poets so I listen to
lyricists and self-made
hipster authors tailoring
their image to trendy NYC

—

holy ghost,
you gave me a hickey
but asked
who gave you this
in a stormy low voice

—

people have been
yelling at me all weekend
and that is how I know
they love me

my kat called me a pussycat
so I know it’s real
by this time everyone is tired
and no one is more tired of me
than myself

my knight of swords and page of wands
both younger than me/ but far wiser
telling me to shut it down
No Good Reason
the need for being
a principled rogue
being more dire than ever
what is it called when you
divide your mind over your
heart? when you try to stop
living by the lowest common
denominator? what statistics
can I rely on without having
to think too much

about what
the right thing
is

—

if I only
knew what
I wanted at
all times
that would be
my salvation

the act is secondary
but the pain is
immortal

an act of psychic
self-immolation
we all need different
chemical cocktails
in our showers

bathe me in hyaluronic acid
and cough drops, suck me a
thimble that’s gone dry,
I need to nurse myself
back to being
uncursed with fickleness

—

my lumberjack
is now an axe

for what it’s worth
I’ve never been threatened with
being hurled off a bridge before

—

I saw a swan that was
more dirty
than it was white

and my soul responded,
hard