War came home tonight. We weep and hug, while he stares over our shoulders, like the statue we'll make of him. We pour a drink for his shaky hands, wheel him past his friends the dead, and lie to each other about other, far off places as if we knew.

She wonders if he will do the dishes. He said that he would, but that doesn’t mean anything. He said he would do them last week, said he would save money, said he would come home last night. He didn’t do any of those things, either.

She was a beautiful woman. I don't argue with that. I welcome it.

My sister / craves raisons

Momentarily Winston’s thoughts muddled again. He felt his fingers twitch, a physical sensation which seemed to accompany any recollection from the past. Most of his memories were moments he’d reiterated so many times during his stay in the Ministry of Lov

meditation and thoughts run in circles

I’m deathly afraid of the pub crawls of my ancestors, through Bohemia and Fitzrovia because of the ghosts of alcohol already etched inside my veins and the headlong loss of oxygen

I'm trying to read a Poetry in Motion poem on there wall of a crowded electric train

Sex is a fetish war -- a battle of trinkets of desire

Toxins make a body happy/ as if acceleration toward// an end of consciousness/ is its own reward.

The falling may continue// forever.

Just like D-Ray White’s tapping still bounces off the mountains if the right person is listening, Hasil’s hoots and howls are trapped in record wax like a blood-drunk mosquito in amber.

Able to search through centuries, I click, scribble, skim,resurrect wet stone walls, the smell of burning peat.Bob's your uncle; Peggy's your aunt.Name your family, child. My brother said helloto Uncle Shirley and Aunt Greg. I was more…

If you stop, you starve// and they just offer what you do/ to others, starved already,/ and schooled, as you, in servitude.

with peaty aromatics, opened,/ and a welcomed sting, swallowed,