The last poem. The island between us  which had been fading all summer  is finally gone. Having lost a pair of eyes and a lover. It’s November now. Summer is over. Only explanations are possible. Only regrets. No one exactly knows. Yet there it was. A memory  like a kind of casual friendship. I will…

Give me a word.          Flip it. Plink. How can I still be?Speak a word.             Cling to em, don’t projectile-laugh:Break   your     breath              hold still in tantrum ablue iphone light (used to) clear a warehouse: a lifeFind a sentence to describe yourself: Good American.Morning, mourning unconscious & still knocking the props.Went on…

If we are surrounded by death so too in our understanding by madness. – Ludwig Wittgenstein I am 14, on a bench in Montreal with my brother. It’s summer here and the weather is soothing, cool air finally washing over our suntanned faces after so many months near the equator. We buy three tallboys from…

How would I render the black-sky one word? Blue in all its complexity, brevity, casual mistake, bad manners waving at a gate, at least, at least look at the tone more deeply. I heard the ceiling talking alone in an empty Trafalgar square, the dust of the world burning around us on a cage of…

Stretched out on the Murphy bed  My four walls contained by the edges of another  The pathway between them splintering under some  Light leaking through a hole in the capped clouds  Smells of new rain come through the broken window  A splintering begins somewhere deep within  Quietly at first I almost didn’t notice  Some place…

Stumbling through the neighbourhood  A cactus I always knew I’d love marches Asking impassioned questions Craving openly. Somewhere both new And old, some place with a window and a decent  Washer machine, two rooms for us to live in Read in, bleed in, create, conger, collect, criticise, cum In and besides  she smiled at me…

The exciting thing about writing is that you may be given the opportunity to speak with a wide range of people on a deep, human connection level, without ever having to meet them in person. Not that that is the goal, but it is such a powerful form to get across so much meaning in…

We searched the choreography of their behaviour while we slept. Observing the physicality  of condolence, brevity in the face of connection through dance and solitude and raw fucking Then wake and sleep and more abuse  and more silence and more rage All complied in the belly of the ship. We pluralised to smoke out generalities …

The depressed person morns on the table,  They invite you to their funeral saying:  Does the autumn light  coax your attention to the breath, The pause the mouse the stickiness Of sand wet for distillations kept  In the background without  Anyone to write them down, At times it seems to be an Apocryphal nauseous gasping …