6s plural span, the word relinquishes. by the thread tongue
of this dread one head is on: brawn upon the man enough to
twist against the flow, go upon unknowingly in turns of teach
and learn, flinch and take it – love it comes and we regret it
as confessing to a pleasure is the basest of all urge, strongest
of all weaknesses admitting of its tough, it’s restless. ripped,
but not really interesting he embarrasses all notion of scarred
first, last to best and best to worst in neurotragic thirst, evol-
ute congenerate in ingenious disguise, the tracks it takes to
find me in a pool of mush and rash, crush and crashing; tattoo
blue in self-effacing stroke of fade, master seeking up! in trade
and down to single detail. 6 stitches long, the oil replenishes.
by the shoulder of this other, brain within the flutter of a fetish
I can ask for is this back as I hit back (and you hit harder); slip
to say what shame is after and feel sheepish to accept the offer.
bruise that’s put upon me and made fair as breath is only what
this body must reject, what its counterpart encourage in a man
ner of so saying. mind, the sharpest weapon someone stupid
may produce, my enemy reduce me to the shortest of my lurid
thoughts, least heartfelt words: most clear intentions.


in spazz a brother sparks, in asking brother kindles;
able speak and spiddal stick is mannered to contend
the hit, play out the sombre dance in stints of chop,
herearch there slipping; once as found and twice as
willing to be sibling in the art, spastic paired or form
ed in spar of plastic measure overstas’ as is, is/was,
keeps being. he holds a candle to my heel and (seem
ingly) calls practice on perfection feeling close to
open ending – overbearing – underwhelming in er
asure of my shallow understanding in the moves as
I see fit, ultimate price as he is promising it – deliver
ance in the astonishing display of system grips, indiff
erence insisted as it takes too much of spits, roasted
to a crisp in dips of make it short: I’ll fix it. it ends.


Life, on the edge of split.
a breath becomes intermittent
in stint of passing trend,
a hand from the end of break
in acheing swell, a cut not bruising.
name and body I keep using to
abuse myself with; dying with
the thought of taking leash
to level next, submission to a
low extreme for tending tward
the nil. a bag of illness I
feel safe to keep as full as I can
carry, heavy to the shoulder
blades I bury deep in flesh,
coil to a perfection. round in
coarse and threaded noose,
tight upon the neck that uses
choke as an affective verb,
hands in beard as hands deserve
to cup of what keeps going. like
life on the edge of stiff,
twitch and wet with suicide spit:
end, and all that comes with it.
me, on the ledge of –


Think karim, think pain of effort:
extra lb, sticking elbow; gains from hell
and predilecting over live to tell the crowd
of it, legged and lagging heavily and heaving
as you go, rough and huffing up the blow in
contientious dose, portentious pretension;
an offer being offered in mid-mediocre
tension, post-transcendent ere post-actively
precising parent harms, poor receptive charms,
charletting. blood is the colour of you calling
out for having put to ink what won’t dilute in
simple terms, on basic techings: a to lack and
l to hack as I remain uneven.

Hod Complex

Says he do[es], breaks a horseshoe in the mouth of rush,
The pressure precedent: a heavy in the way of hang,
Nonheld that has me belly full and shoulder strong,
Tier traumatic and a hold on to the umph and ar and
Have it. As it has it all turns head away from hurt;
You are ten stories high if you’re a foot, and I keep
Diminishing. Danger country run down as the rum
Down that we up, the hateful nature that keeps
Nurturing a lift horse in the mouth, Trojan of a
Consort tearing up and in between, past and out
To get me as the urge it comes too close, it ventures
Deeper – lucky struck as breath and breathing of
A gospel in hod form, psychometric transformation.
Complex word in worthless taking of a meaning for
Its mark, a harm if you must have me. Love is simple,
You know: & forgiving. It is only by encouraging the
Quiet act that we speak up, learn to cover for what’s
Missing. Eighth in row, overflowing – and ashamed
To find a purpose in what mercy he keeps showing
Me. Admittedly: I shy from all that pushes me toward
The centre; as commitment meets dissent and I dis-
Tend heraclean muscle pretending I can tick, I can’t
Take it. There’s a joke on the world that says it must[n’t];
This is how I know we shall.


from a fear of blood
forms a fear of turning.
who I am and
who I care for are
two things I keep pretending
mean the same, keep meaning
to change me. for a tongue’s
worth of a compliment it
burns, the memory of being
loved returns to me,
pours heavily running through
spit that sustains me,
a hit job as threatening: ‘draw
of my heme.’ but
your red is distracting. it’s
not fitting I should
be afraid of my own,
but as your wounds have
shown me – it is
better to be bruised than
to be bleeding.

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.