The End


After the Spear-Danes
And shields
And myths have passed
This is how it ends
After the city has shredded you to a whimper
Twin peaks slope everything down
Through smog to the idle of the bay
Kerouac clatter down alleys
Lettered in gold
Living here
That sharp smell of impatient words
Burnt coffee
The twitching eyelid muscles
Leaches out the beauty under the eyes
You become more tourniquet than tangerine
The only happiness you can grasp
Is the happiness of knowing
That you can survive
Totally alone
Somewhere under
The rainbow



Weekday mornings
you rear up in front of me
billboard tall
trapped in the flash headlights
casual slouch of the professional model
no matter what the weather
tread lightly through seaspray
on a polished grain beach
desperately refracting
and i hate your curiously-shaped mouth
your windblown hair
and effortless imperfection of a body
that does not know
but most of all i hate
that you can ignite some rippling flame abstract desire
without knowledge
of the slope your thoughts make
are your opinions abhorrent?
are you glass beads in sun?
when i am clothed in rainbows
are you rising light behind my head?
do you live by those statements you read on lululemon bags and vitamin water bottles?
why do you persist in teaching me something
that i do not wish to learn?
the train pulls away from the station
swathes the billboard in its halogen glance
you are simply
not waving or drowning
an array of pixels that merge
with distance
eventually all beauty is defeated
by distance

Dream: Well

He is clambering up the dark slick sides of the well,

an analogue for the female perhaps.

And this, as he turns oblique to the coldness

of the wall is like waking up,

inhaling the light in sharp gasps

to banish the world of chasing and lost teeth.

Every day climbing from the well

in desperate reach of flint and muscles

tightened by nightmare.

And one day, resting in the dark.

The Persistence

I see you in front of me
Flowing curve skin
In perspective temptation
A torso tapering towards the neck
Each seam of you picked out
In vulnerable red stitching
You are high-def
Infuriating perfection
At this narrow distance
A sharp breath might
Draw blood from the desert
It is just like
When I was a picture
On your tv screen

Triple Point

As you draw closer to christmas, perhaps it’s good to post something that fits the time of year. Something depressing. The title is based on the notion of the triple point in physics, the first temperature at which water can exist in solid, liquid or gas.


there is a point
at which friends are neither
necessary, sufficient or useful;
let us call it the triple point
where one is woven in with the background,
stitched to the passage of time.

for example:
I still receive mail for Mr. Daniel Bertrand,
which I place to one side each day,
and which, each day,
the postman places back inside the box
with the gloomy regularity
of a pendulum
My ventures outside become anonymous;
I try not to recognize people or move suddenly
in case they recognize me;
inside, I dart and scurry in hallways lest I get trapped
by a neighbour or lost child.
I have become a rarely-sighted species,
hunting laundry by night and groceries on Wednesday afternoons
the laundry tiger

When one disappears like this
(I think of a chalky white pill dissolving
in a lukewarm glass of water)
it is a gradual process. First
one stops talking to those people who require
effort, those friends who are tiresome in one sense
or another.
Next come those who are far away,
then the unreliable
the circle constricts like the shrinking pill,
the shirts you could wear
when younger
which no longer fit right
you are simply a dot in the centre of an
expanding circle of whiteness
that eventually will average you out

Auden said ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’
Instead, I remove the battery from my Ikea clock,
accidentally dropping it down the side of the bed in the process;
my telephone cannot be cut off, only cancelled.
Too late, I will receive a large bill for my trouble.
And woven into the fibres of the paper,
so small that even microscopes holding microscopes
could only begin to make out the edges of letters,
are tiny words that reach out and pull me
into a womb of white noise.