caracaracara

At night, the grumbling of frogs and toads and locustsSomething howls in the distance, variegating tones but never closer: tied or bound, probably, and pissed offAll stars blanket and planes arch across this needlework, making quiet fissures – something potent tamed in service of holidays to wherever Albany Airport even flies to – Not a … Read moreRome, NY

Every day I am born anew with loveas all turns to sinewMy brothers, broken back into soup I want to live and I will not turn away from itEyes must be prised open with matchsticks,twisting to all the things that we do I will not forgive myself.Look as they’re pestled to sweetGlitters, returned to supernovae … Read moreSoup

Throughout the month: Portunus looks over us, god of waterways and gateways and keys and doors. Marseille is often white hot. At night, we keep our doors closed . One week to go: I go on a date with a very rich man and talk exclusively about air conditioning (“love it!”) and recommendations for his … Read moreThe end of the holiday, or Portunus vs Surgat

Drinking some champagne and gallivanting to the pool. We are so brave and so big, hand in hand and smoking loops past the chalets. I’ll say it if no one else will – we are incorrigible! We thrash in the water and he lets me win a length, I think because it’s my birthday. I … Read moreSwimming at the spa hotel

A young man with a backpack pushes past the closing doors at Highbury, a shell shocked look and an upturned nose. An old woman sits to write the address on an envelope. We stand. Within 30 seconds the man has slowly sunk to his knees at the central pole as though to prostrate: he writhes … Read moreMan on the Victoria Line

I brought my bike to the fix-up place the other day. It’d been sitting outside my friend’s shop for a few months, teens had picked off the saddle, the back wheel rubbed against the brake with every rotation. Still, I thought better to fix it than replace it. But as it turns out, cheaper to … Read moreHoarding

she flirts with the crystal ball that is her now antagonising hands to fondle her coldness, smooth her hair to glass with human fingers Ships in bottles, auroras, galaxied into air bubbles Frankenstein’s monster rebuilding itself with a Protestant stoicism Return the hymn sheets to the printer, hum our fizzing tune of physics and excoriations

The singular human experience, as far as I can tell, is:  liquid mercury romance sloshing around your mouth and your chest; texts from your estranged father telling you about cereal bars on mega discount that you simply cannot miss out on; illnesses and worthy recuperations, or, often, death; rot and decay with no regrowth, salted; … Read moreSeptember 2022

Not shame in a Catholic way but in the gulping down insects way rushing around town with an air of busyness distracting myself from you. The shame of malleability, how I’m a stick of rock left in a damp place, all spiky looks but really spools of need, and so much interest in pleasing. A … Read moreOnion