` loqui

wild flowers 
in a vase
without water. 

nothing else matters 
once you’ve been found. 

a secret mouthful of friendship

under the table. 
under the bed. 

we are monsters of our own 

mouth to mouth: the stuff of life,  
from hand to hand 
between legs, 


Picking berries through winter, 
snapshots of adventure, 
it’s flash fiction. 

It tastes the same, 
it looks the same 
as the picture 
in your mind. 

Not until it’s too late 
do we know the difference, 
the nutrients 
of a real, full love. 

out of phase

we’re never in sync.

I die every time
you’re born.

you crawl
whenever I learn to walk.

two sine waves
assigned to wave goodbye

it gets to the point 
where you take 
what oars you can find, 
nails through the dirt, teeth into rock,
whatever delivers you to the other side. 

mellifluous, the footsteps 
away from the house 
count down, 
until the cat’s away. 

I throw a ball
to my future self
who still
cannot catch
to save his life.

I heard the mountains
talk shit about me
in their sleep, or my sleep,
some murderous dream,
in the shaking of ground, of sheets.

Meanwhile I was a city-wide smile,
bright lights for teeth, bright eyes,
wet tongue for drinking skin,
carried by the crawling
of a nocturnal colony,
all the way in
to the mouth
of the night.


stains all down me.
creases, frays
and rips,
but still clothed.


compost on asphalt

compost on asphalt 

i’m trying to make page notes 
with a pencil onto pixels. 

today there’s pink tissue 
sprinkled over the avenue 
as if the tears 
of some wedding’s confetti 
will penetrate the tessellation 
of stone. 

round trees in square holes. 
blue skies peering between the roofs
of houses where no-one talks 
face to face.