His nakedness hangs on a hook on the wall.
When it catches on to his gaze, he bows to it.
His nakedness turns its face from him.
He wears his brokenness, his fallenness, his not-yet-worldliness.
He wears himself like a ruse; like a vanguard.
When one errs it threads itself in to your world-weariness.
He wants only to be warmed.
Yet eventually each erring becomes worn too.
Faces and places are tried on.
He tried on history then shrugged it off.
But then the livery of a new day does not do- he is boxed in, all angles, all grooves.
His nakedness lives on the hook on the wall, as he welcomes the weekend, in a beast’s rugged fur.
He clutches on to the dimming of the day like rosary beads, as the night sky turns her face to those remaining.
He welcomes her: the sooty, speckled livery as a cloak, now thrown to the dirt, now wrested from it’s caresses with the eternal.
He peels his papers from the pack like layers of his own skin and ashes as an offering to the air.
He drinks his bourbon straight.
Swallows it like the words of a lover who will one day leave.
He makes love in the dark because he knows faces aren’t supposed to have names, then takes breakfast stale and tea cold.
This is a pseudo-skin he wears too.
And when the sky is yellowed, ripened, bruised, he wears that too.
Then Monday comes.
It is a crowning ceremony.
A king he is made, where knees wear the earth.
He reminisces, having made mistresses of Sunday skies.
His eyes meet with his nakedness in the evening, where it remains with a ghastly perfection.
His nakedness hangs on a hook on the wall.
Over-ripe with life, his
things and places in which to store
pieces of himself. It was
too much to live with the
himself. In the
elegy of living, he came to
heart as some sort of
propelling machine. It
pinned him against the
wall at night and in the morning he
forgot that he could
only his heart’s
racket and the seal of
madness was stabbed in to his
flesh. It was a
bleed out, even a
Once he found a
girl to love and
things were even
machine wore him and
changelings, each mimicking
youth can grow stale and unpalatable by its
mere perpetual presence. She had been a
emancipations; the thing to
written on every inch of his
body was a Thomas poem
every angle. This was the problem. He began to
think of her as he thought of
as a revelation that existed
everywhere but in the present. She
as a spot at the back of his
neck that could bring on the
in him that only
wanted for sex.
bled in to being and to
violate the hallowed that he
carried, as refined as a pearl and swallowed as
pure violation. Of course,
there are truths:
fine, even; that there
exist a multiplicity of
then there were the moments that got
stuck in his throat
There are boys who carry briefcases
bound up with the grimaces of
cuckolded old men. There are suitcases
hung beneath eyes that are the preface of
absolution that never comes and the
assemblage of niceties that are labelled as truths.
There are lovers made up entirely of
advertising slogans who know more about love that you ever
will and thoughts that present themselves as
revolutionaries, then turn out to be
bureaucrats. There are words skipped across
afternoons like stones and then
discarded. There are accidental glances, favours and other
transgressions that are written neon in the night of the soul.
There are the fashions of the body that make anklebones and
There is the conceit of being well.
There are heavy bodies.
There is what remains.
I measure the cross with the length of your arms.
The falter; the fall; the resurrection are not
gifts for the pious, but remedies
for the mistaken; for the too well.
My hope is drowsy.
My will is unwell.
The solace of mornings has been
spent; the refrain of bodies, bruised.
The ocean wants me to forget her.
She wants me to remember my
name; the scratches on my wrists; the ancient
exemplars of finitude.
But I am a walking calamity.
My prayer-bed knees creak.
I ask too much of the sky and too little of my mother.
I bottle my blood and throw it to the sea.
I laugh and turn plentitude in to
despair. I slit your wrists so that I can
wear your hair like the
earth wears a spring morning.
You are breaking, my darling.
Still, I snuff out the stars like dust.
made of my skin.
wake in my tremble.
I shepherd my
thoughts as a vocation.
words fall in and
out of themselves.
becomes itself, and
we become that
be the lack that is in us all.
wretched hands. Our
unmasterable feet. Our greedy thoughts.
That the most
craven parts of my soul
of gentle evenings. But I know not
idylls of the mind.
Anyway, the pretty is an
This blistering. This blistering.
This blistering now.
Being is entirely deniable.
Stitch up my spine
with your swelling,
Rest my mind on the
The invention of man: written on bodies;
etched in to skin. The bones of winter are
beginning to form their walls.
You and I are the same;
of hope and skin.
Smokes taken to castigate
time and gods on tv screens.
Skies torn from the book of all that lies above
to be tread on by hopes far too small.
How quickly the soul
becomes drunk on purposelessness
This body, electric.
Clutching for anything, bodies
bleed in to each other.
Claiming truths or things people say;
arresting whatever is close by.
The full openness
dwells within and space pours out of crowds.
Sometimes we serve the gods, when the
face of the earth has been torn down.
Being has become a
problem of cartography.
Still, we are composed entirely of
bruised knees and filthy knuckles, the
other places and
other beings that have inhabited
interfere with the
insistence of the present.
Too easily, aphoristic sentiments
wear my skin.
Then comes the
presencing of places
in the night; in the cool air; in the
faces of past lovers.
To make a cradle of the world, we
will enter in to almost anything.
To be good, well that is an adage
carved in to this skin until
Death is too small and
death turns it’s face
from being when it is
required most. I do not
The only god I know of is this: that
things are less than they claim
to be. My
carves its way toward a
clearing amongst the bush.
The volume of a single
human breath is
about 500 millilitres. There are
of measurement too, but this is a
very human currency. A human
currency is the last of what may be
hoped for. There are
earthquakes somewhere within our
our still too human bones — that
defy the politics of numbers
touch my lips;
finger your whiskey glass; taste the
unbound. But our
laws are too many.
breed or be bled.
Remember the others’
semblance of skin. Tempted into a
faithful stupor; into
we use congenial words as
crucifixes. There is the
tasteless languor that
reaches its paws in to the
other objects of beauty. We find
anthropomorphic deities in
everything, most of all in each other; we
find the fervour in
smiles and skin and other
away from the sky.
The river runs
toward itself; makes
note of where it has been. It
eddies and ripples and
at the rocks. Remember the
way the river used to flourish in the
dying gaze of
one man or another. Now all cast their
upon this or that waterbody.
wager with the water
and it comes to nothing.
to the river bed, the
water yearns and
for its own