begushkin.

mark a scratch when a bitch-wolf howls
on its back, its barmy jowls
breathing bite,
and I rub your belly too

and when nightly things arise
and flinting are your painted eyes,
I'll make a mess when I'm inside of you.

just trying to find the right mixture of light fixtures and exra-large windows of opportunity.

"I've always longed for a knife, a blade to lay bare my entrails, set my brain and heart free. A sharp blade that would scrape away all uncleanliness. Then, the so-called spirit would rise up from this meaningless carcass." -- The Magician.

distance.

There are women on the street.
They shine before me like teeth in a mine.

But the conversation is like the beating
taken in a dream,
where no real blows are landed.
The only harm is in memory.

All these moments have passed through me,
I have turned them all to waste.

haters be hatin.

it makes me wanna throw up
when whack rappers show up
it makes me wonder if and when they're ever gonna grow up.

I'd rather go to the ballet,
give the keys to the vallet
and rendez-vous for the weekend at the challet.

Litany.

We are two abysses -- a well staring at the sky. (Pessoa, Book of the Disquiet.)

some things last a long time.

Your picture is still on my wall.
The colors are bright
as ever.

my love is the like the XX album: "slow, brooding, extremely sensual"
and always in the background.

like a blade.

to wreath the moon in a head dress of neon flames
must take concentration from that heavy old bird.

Sent to a man who seemed to change his mind.

Since my heart placed me
on board your drifting ship,
not one day has passed
that I haven't been drenched in cold waves.

Alberta, I

have learned to love you,
like one learns to love
being a widow.
I have been thrown into you and abandoned
like a pair of African twins in the bush.
Your starkly composed yet beautiful complexion,
a path for me to trace;
your moods as unpredictable
as a mental patient.
So few loves are this difficult.

sweet treat.

if someone offers you some sugar,
you should eat it.

ice water.

briney waters singe their skins
icy waves drive them back again
helmets, oars and swords
are washed upon the shore.

the water demon's eyes are pink and green
scales of silver mirror mesmerize
the most beautiful thing you've ever seen
spits bile into your eye.

at the coroner's office (after Dani Couture).

The road that leads into the forest
may not be the one that leads you out.

The hand knows the will of the heart,
yet is unwilling to make the move.

Show me your greyhound-like strut, the graceful dip
of the knife into the skin.

At last, the tulips are in bloom
on Quinpool!

The sweet drip of your seduction is more intoxicating
and deadly than your anger.

Have you not always had such small hands?

A starling's hop on the lawn,
a blackbird's lost feather,

the way the finch crushes whatever comes across its beak --
that is, into nothingness --

you've got the attributes of a cold case romance.

another found haiku.

I should dig a hole,
to put dead ideas and seeds
where those things belong.