• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 03


I’ll never get used to the sun-licked tremblings
Of landscapes, every time it pours honey-
Cement over my feet and demands love.
Perhaps because we cannot ask it questions –
It is in the awe that peels you loose
That answers drip, like slumming ichor.

Does it listen to the purr and bubble
Of monotony, soaked in crushed minutes,
Bald walls and fickle bedframes blushing
in the evanescent precipice, the kind
I never seem to notice? It is only when
I’m busy dusting my mouth or polishing
Some greased cogitation I’m struck
By its warm knock, by my feet or against
Glass burning in its frame, a tired flame.

(To think the fat triped moon must stomach
The hot white teeth which bite it clean
Every day, and here my stomach rumbles.
Why must it ask for recognition
With its clear emptied face,
the kind we cannot look at?)

Sometimes, I wake with its faille embers
Pressed tight against the empty corners
Of my sedentary days like kindling,
Cracking its knuckles before snapping grey.
I sometimes wonder if it loves me back



The way it clasps my slow aorta
To its blistering ventricle – together we
Make the world pump and march into colour.

And here, more sun-swallowed than licked
The tip of each salt dagger is smeared
In lambency, piercing the veils between
The times of your time and mine. And

I should really use my melting slither
of seconds and space
to get to know you better.