>I aim to write enough of these to work into a chapbook. God knows, I am disconnected enough!

DISCONNECTED #1 will soon appear in Graffiti Kolkata Broadside #10.


No tragedy: the tracks,
squirming in the rage of
chronic difficulty, nor the hell
of occupancy, truth
of an indefinite existence.

Understand the howl of the flesh
cramped in this half-cured trauma.

Flat, lungless: all is image,
else it is forgotten
like most memories, and remembrance
mostly a betrayal anyway.

I want like an unadorned finger
with poetry in the fist too heavy
to be born, and to love
properly without the hellish command of war
where every word hurtles to a wound.

I want the sun
to exhibit herself
more humanely:
forgive; or me
refine my hostility.


Crawling among marram-threaded instabilities; the roots
coming undone and thinking it brave to call the wind.

It is an odd freedom; like the citrine ring in my mind’s eye
or the perpetual leisure of the satisfied dead.

Daily, the bent industry of vespertine living, looking up at
the possibility of a wing where birds curl the air beyond.

The lifted moment of the indelible; the mortal tattoo
that visits the eyes and the foul shine of yesterday’s stars.

Meaning rests a fathom below the surface, and I flotsam
on strange days breathing like the leaf on a small flower.


Mourning comes early when the silence misfires;
when the days, slack as old skin, fall about our necks
and the indecent sun hotter than all life – all living –
browbeats to the discomfort of not blinking. I,

now holding the pages further away, squinting
with time passing, shifting the skin neater, and
longing for sleep. Sleep, where it is never easy;
where it is more than dark and any colour grey.

It is more often winter, even with the heat rising
and wetter, even though the rain halts; provides
pieces of air from the past and a caesura enough
for a breath; enough to forget any umbilicus. Still,

there are the beloved; they thread lurex
our veins: they sparkle blood.


Before she lost herself; before
he slowly suicided; she was
a burst of blood, and he
full of foul straw fingers.

I, wrapped in the tyranny of birth: the clamp;
the cut of umbilicus a contaminated liberty,
and howling for the isolated pulse.

I have wanted silence since;
a ring; authentic surfaces.

I have wanted the scream of affinity.

What if I exalt the contused beauty?
It is not home this trashy compendium.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s