THE TABLE

yield for no one 
no gods or monsters 
grapple and twist free
from sandpaper grip

absorb them into supple folds 

your rosy cherub cheeks 

snuff the candles and yank the banquet sheet 

it began crisp and clean and sharp 

yet the gift wrap has become redundant 

it withers like the gremlin that cowers at your feet 

burying its head with shame

afraid of your rage 

your insatiable hunger 

your lust your drive

to eat to fuck 

to prove you’re still alive

bathe in the spray

of the porcelain bust 

bursting like neon melon

dark dinner party rules

have been thrown out with the plates

we cannot eat upon a pile of shards

THE THERAPIST

birdcage blankets wrap the empty head
that wavers and wanders the path we fear to tread 

the dead speak and sing but birds fly no more 

to soar 

beyond a hill on the back of a beast 

prolonging its noise 

its call a siren wail of warning

impending doom

bombers pepper the sky

drops of moisture beading

collecting

slowing the propellor 

blinding pilots as they screech and tumble

the fall into the ocean a

SMACK

as if into concrete

which holds and freezes you in granite

in stasis waiting 

to be unearthed by faceless voids where faces once lived 

but now 

with the astringent gaze of a surgeon they see us 

they pry us from our thick tombs

they parade us around the world

an artifact of lingering pain

the negative impression of our forming resting place 

the only indication of heaven cut short

an enduring monolith to our absence

a mold for future imperfect versions

THE CYCLIST

A cyclist with a head injury

stumbled into the party

dispensing wisdom and insight

effortless philosophy in an approachable way

his forwardness welcome and his rhetoric 

unflinching

All night he stayed,

staggered and swayed, 

pupils black and gaping,

placid midnight pools

his gaze unbreaking

An intensity that would not falter,

bleeding life advice for amnesiacs.

Stranded and abandoned in the desert

we latched on

thirsty for water, 

leeching whatever drop of moisture we could

from the fruits of this sweat-soaked oasis.

Inciting revelations within the undeserving

lives were changing,

though we’d be too stumbling drunk 

to remember it all 

in the light of day

that slowly crept into the sky,

as the light

in his eyes 

began to recede

Before he left

he wiped his beaded brow

Pushing aside his helmet

I spied a glimpse of

pink thinking flesh.

Thick jam stains the carpet

where he once walked

and chain grease too

the only evidence of this fading prophet

I confess I’d known the injury was there

the moment he shambled in

but I needed his words

I wish could remember them

I wish I could remember his face

But it’s gone

And I’m here,

belly and brain

bloated with poison,

waiting for another accident 

to send to me and the remaining ungrateful

someone mortally wounded

to offer the drink we need 

yet don’t have the strength to hold 

to our lips

He held up the cup

I drank

Leaving none for him

He was found in the stairwell

that afternoon

He died in hospital 

the next night

DEATH AND LIFE IN WINTER

Cold cuts deep

through flesh it stings

the blood sings 

a screaming note

splashing on snow pure as souls

the mist the steam that drifts 

effervescent unashamed 

caught in currents invisible to the wide staring eye 

tears turn to crystal on refracted and expiring lenses

cataracts go milky then disintegrate

the trees saw it all 

they witness with bated breath 

casting out roots in slow fashion pursuit

millimetres a day driven by cravings 

for nutrients that leak from this body 

nitrogen that will burst into the soil

after raving insatiable dots do their work 

endless totems of myth

through carrion crawler and lightning they are fed

we make tiny flattened winterfresh idols

to dangle on our mirrors 

to mask the scent of greasy paper bags

made from their skin

the fibres of their flesh

AFTER HEARING THE CHEERS AT CAMP CHIEF HECTOR

To feel the walls shake

in the Pine Cathedral,

the foundations trembling

at the furious percussion

of hundreds of tiny

unwashed feet

To hear the shrill voices

crying out in unison,

decibels shredding through years worth

of protective canvas

To see the power of a great room

filled with children united

under one goal

as one tribe

Unafraid to be heard

to be loud

To behold these things

is to know why the Old fear them

Why They create systems and grids

and blocks and modules

and diagnoses and pronouns, 

ad nauseum,

to trap and confuse them,

lock them up in tiny little boxes,

surround them with imposed walls

constructed with “whatyoucantdo”

For this is a power that terrifies

and exhilarates,

seems to promise a new world

built upon the shattered foundations of our own

Preying upon the most ancient of all fears:

to die

and be forgotten

while reminding you what it was

to be oblivious of your newness

and the inevitable

I FELL ASLEEP ON A SAPLING

I fell asleep on a sapling

and awoke

much later

to find that it had grown right through me

To pull myself free would open me up,

pouring torrents of life onto the forest floor

To cut the sapling out of the ground

would be to sever something alive inside of me

to feel it die

and wither

inside of me

So I remain where I am,

craning my neck and twisting my head

to gaze upwards as the sapling

becomes a mighty tree

At first my friends

bring me tuna salad sandwiches to survive

but I soon learn to take nourishment

from the roots,

pulling up nutrients
from the rich soil

into my body

I swap out blood for chlorophyll

and a basement dweller's pale complexion

for a soft healthy green.

I glow.

Upon reaching the doorstep of heaven,

the tree looks down,

suddenly aware of itself,

horrified to discover it has a living human growing through it

and casually brushes it away

Cast off by the tree

splayed open

for all of the forest to see

my life begins to ebb away,

all colours draining

save for the red hot shame

but nothing is wasted in the forest

Before too long,

my open cavity becomes host

to thriving cities

My insides are once again teeming with life

a torrent of infrastructure

and insect bureaucracy

My temporal body soon to be replaced

by networks of honeycomb

paper nests and royal jelly

killing fields of spiderweb

yet always at the centre,

an ever-beating heart
blanketed with moss

UNDESERVING OF MERCY

My peripheral vision is swarming

with obscene gestures

cast,

like spells,

by cyclopean witches

Half-blind hags

with no depth perception

thrust their fingers into the air

with the conviction

of the persecuted,

the drowned

and the burned

the coven closes in,

encircling me

like wild turkeys

performing funeral rites

for a dead

street cat

I pray for mercy

I don't quite deserve,

I’d accept even transformation

I'll live as a frog,

I welcome the trials and tribulations

of a pollywog

anything

but the fate

to which these women are destined

chained

to the blackened pine,

the smell of their own flesh cooking

The only devil

they consorted with,

the one in the hearts of the fathers and brothers

who will light the match,

watch the show,

then

content with a job well done

retreat to their empty homes

settle into their straw beds

immune to the dreams

that guilt can bring

each with a plucked eye
under his pillow