last aerie come an eagle decked for lasik surgery
home to rabbits under bush the glancing hunger
mortgages but cold as a basement digger's hands
nobody knocks on the leafpiles where squirrels shuffle

gargoyle series


Thankful always I will be

Grateful from take one

As if I was declared dead

While still smiling on the live stream

Forever feeding sharks real questions

For which most answers brawl

To get to the top of the bait pile

I die every day exactly as if

I was only living to hear

The sound of one real question

To kill me or not to see me

Blind ones living out to the fullest

Their final fantasy of stomping

The natural extension

To the downwards spiral

Pay attention before take two

For the skeletons are kicking calendars

Usually hidden in my closet

While spreading unruly rumours

Between the sweaty sheets

With all this undue respect

And other backwards thinking habits

That gathers around here

In front of the forest fire

I smear my dirty fingerprints

All over the forbidden screen

With freestyle ambitions

Of becoming just another

One waiting for my genius

To be discovered at last

For my treasure to be unearthed

And for my cookie to finally crumble

As long as the big bites

End up in a coffee cup

Where the blood feels thicker

Than a stormy glass of water.

la poussière de torse d'arbre de moutons

the rub

while brushing up on hired eagerness (finishing all you have lent me)
a word crawled into my mouth
I lapped up figures of speech
- some things are just not straightforward

Moon Facts


Like a weathering Jesus
Stuck to the dashboard
With a cello between her knees
As the beaten up vehicle tears
Down the speedway
To another colour hell
It used to be another story
But now for all intents and
Faced with the utter lack of purpose
She bitches since I levitate
Pretending not to see me
Hovering around the clouds
Suspended on the brink
Of her lament in C minor
Now that I have surmised her secret
She bitches on a speeding mission
Where for better or for worse
She smiles like pending doom
As to throw me the curve
I need to make the final stretch
In the pole position always
Hurdling unfinished obstacles
To the finish she grasps
For a cubic foot of birthrights
So there’s nothing for me to add
Alas she is bitching to the beat.


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Spider Girl

plugged in somatic

Torsos, a naked kind of leather scared and attrited. Grapple-batons, absent blades, scissors and sickles in the shadows of these bodies. Cyphers and memories / bruises and scars. Khaki shredded, a bemused logo, rags upon hides / upon sides / portions of meat in mud. Of this image / of wrestlers that flog the canvas / of the campaigns released in the face, full / square in the face. The ID and its new wave language, urban after-hours issue and glossy strands of an attitude inserted in black rubber of embossed body-armour.


the thought of puking bile
covered chunks of expertise
in my children's
hungry mouths
motivates me

opening their doors
in the evening
with all i've gathered
throughout the day
in my throat

"hello son,


have some
cunning stew


here's some gooey-soft

my eldest
over the kitchen
table gobbling
a can of
thick and hearty

and after awhile
the pace would quicken
and every thirty seconds
they could fill
a bowl
with their loving
father's fertile

they must learn
to come and get it
out his mouth

his jaws
ripping the heads
off worms


in that
they could die
falling out of the nest
picked up by a kind
or possibly a priest

each of my children
huddled in a pinch
of yellow grass
shivering featherless
in a shoe box

all their chunks in vain
as every bird they'd sheltered
ever knew
its their father's scent
strangely refusing

gruis (trigga happy hairy monsta fret show)

gru grit gruis grom da
geruis gerief geruf gemor
gaffel graven gerven vragen
vergen vroege k lag da

gruis da
gruis da
gruis da
gruis da

gr uis

u is
is s

To CD: a tormented sonnet...

Sev'n-ring'd nights , theme song, will close with a bang
and your scatter'd Voice is falling to a twang
and your phantom HAND deep down in my heartlace
will reattach Life long-forgotten from long-forgotten grace .

Loud cries will mutter: oh, stay, you, Ruby Drops
and Wings of Time will smoothly surface my time props
making Night longer for the rough revealers
he knows another sallow morning will soon heal hers.

Rose incarnadine I am with False retreats that burn
that make my drowsy absent Worshipper again return
I cry and strike your Soul 's Winter-garment born in summer
and stars keep coming, the flight of Stars that died some time ago,
Your Heav'n is much bitter than your Turret Nightingale's lean glow .

That open Spring of Light that kindles all deep water
and Birds and Lips and Solitude to you are shown in turn
until the "RedSadWake" of your desire will ultimately burn!

Amplification of Idea