LETHARGOS [rutneck augur and the silver fleece]

Wheel, chair, lamp, desk –
The edge of the experience as it
Returns to me,
Post-actively present,
A piecing of the weights that
Must be los(s, t), shame as it
Regains an active form,
Relative pressure.

The grind of open shells and black cocaine,
Explosion in the way of what’s remaining
Close to the ground, and inspiring.

Is it that the crawl sees,
The crawl moves through me –

Tumourous, tumescent and much
Sooner than expected:
The death of tripping flesh,
Limb of obscure distress
Awaking wildly.

Next to the bed where she limps,
Sits upright, is reminded:

“Come you slept to this chest of
white bone, split to the point
that not rest, not my hand –
not he there who observes us
and knows – could relief?”

– That I could (and he can) raise an
eye to my own and be fled, drench
to the bruise and there lie, laze
and lifeless; a sore to behold and
be held by this sorceresspulsion.

Pulse (made to pulse) and feel
Slow held against my own flow
Of remission.

A means the one as one more,
A one among many exploring
Myself bound to steel and a warning to

Lo! turn’t the wheel;
a blow to the spine’s not for long,
is then feelless. the strap as
the evil contraption that sees us
unable to cope, un’way to escape
til a stroke stays the hand
that’s resisting.

Praise the lace for its thread and go free,

The ancient saying is no strand could
Withstand false sympathy.

But good rope is thicker than blood.

And some hangings (as some loves)
Must go by destiny.


I’m halfsame, halfdifficult;
wasted youth on principles
of flesh and its repentance.
you are all that represents
the fucks I’ve missed out on,
the weights that I keep carrying.
halfinsane, hands in hand that
hurts me. I allow it. it’s his name
I cannot bear now, the nervous
memory that somehow stretched
still curls toward the centre.
to spread apart, but never enter.
to perpetually be denied.
halfmade to know me better
than to think that I would let her
take sobriety for shame,
hesitation for an exit.
as the nearest door grows outward
I call out, breed the habit. halfdead
and halfflaccid and alltripping.
is a name half the worth I keep
taking for the privilege it’s not?,
the claim I keep forgetting I’m
entitled to. just because she said
she wouldn’t doesn’t mean that I
should take to what she tells me
for the truth when half my
everything is lies that I’ve grown
used to. yes you are and yes I know
you. you are death and I suspect
you to be fond of me, and verily
be calling for my flesh, mistake me
for the worst among the best, the
least amidst the most it may be.
matters not: you will see me.
hanging and
halfbleeding and
a genius. twice everything
you saw yourself ingeniously
rubbing between palms,
feeling between fingers.
there’s a way to double up so
tell me if you mean it.
half from language half
from nothing I will read,
write out the sacred prophecy.
halfthesame this world will burn,
will return to us the nothing
it amounts to. halfmyself
I will acquiesce.

submundus calais

as if half-born.
as if half-torn or forgetful
of the tone we’ve brought about,
two words we said aloud that
lead to being here. preferring
not to. kindness in an act of
hanging close and closer to you,
in one gurgling preter you over
worlds of better chance. smarter
evens. once at odds with grievance
subs collide. dreams become it.
someone can learn to call this
love, and act upon it. demand it of
the comforts we keep back, the
pressures we feel pressured to
accept. wherein man submerges
here, his death emerges there.
it is certain. harness is a word
for safe, a safeword for secure;
so long as she holds me and
she bleeds the shadow through,
the fever pours don’t worry.
keep forgetting how to swallow,
how to tie your tongue in nothing
but the feathers your spit out,
bones you keep foreboding.
there’s a tension to us that’s
unloading, that is turning
to a ruin of the bodies we
discover. treading light,
and pushing gently.
there’s intention to the
jump and you can’t
save me. there is only
something vague that
you can cling to,
something sad I can
remember. it will come.
I will change.
for the better.


The crow sings, the crowd looks on.
From a fixed point to a stage break,
A feather to an accident,
A hand upon my chest is like
A blow upon the brow,
The beak among the black and proud
To show of earned and worn,
Speak of storm and stagging.
Here I am my löwe, with horns bleeding.
A taste upon the tongue has made
A ritual of feeding, a challenge
Of the chase that has us hunt while
Out of form, stalk without enjoying it.
That nature hurts, and hurt keeps seeding
In between the devil’s balm
And the joke we make of healing.

Torsten (WASN)

engrossed in
cross eyed blue.
then I see,
the sea comes
upon you.
colour crashes.
for one moment
lines collide and
water lashes out
against us.
the air grows
cold and airless.
unbroken road
made cruel and
careless by the
way we walk
alike, treading
surely to one side
and stepping on
the accident.
that the land
that created
will claim us.
that the earth
we take of does
desert us.
that any man
we make god
is destroyed.


here is
where one body begins where
another resurges.
as the sheets rust and shuffle
we take turns
feeling useful to each other,
tracing losses
in the folds of where it hurts
the most, how
it comes so close to skin
and passes for a
touch it’s not supposed to.
sores in soles
and wounds in palms
and signs we’re
all we said we’d never
succumb to.
but I know you. the lower
it feels the more
power it holds over you.
this is what
it means to face the urge,
deny its urgency.
there are sharper things
we slip into by
slitting deep and true
within us. like
scavenging for substance
in the flesh,
mistaking what is hunger
for aggression.
one body stirs, and another
is suggesting
that it takes from where it
finds, mistakes
a space that’s mine for someone
cold and unaffecting.

ellisfac (sentinel & enterprise)

Like coffin green on iron white, like fucking up when I mean it.
In the image of a flesh contrite and the flashing of a minute –
Come upon me, now. I see it.
Man is an aspect of dust, dirt at its most destructive;
For creation to stir from a hand it must bleed,
For the courage to cut through another it seems
We are brave and despairingly weak. We embrace it.
The more primitive tongues are the ones we have
Most trouble speaking, and yet – we’ve replaced them
With god and the like, worship and wishing that
All things must die, all things keep returning.
Like defence in a manner of act, eternally present
And inspiring. The end forced into a beginning.