What is the peculiar
consolation of a sky
like a violet lamp
above a crunched-foil sea?
Meanwhile, your mother
does not love you.

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Now raising children as a lifestyle we look so much like American poets, except they had more Dexedrine and less automation. Amazon, for example, brings Richard Brautigan to my door, and I tell him to leave; I had ordered Tom Raworth in a sling. What did it mean to dally in Denver anyway? I hear they never even spent any gambling winnings. Not a lottery ticket in Hell did they buy. These useless Americanisms tarnish my name anyway. What nationality do I appropriate to naturalise this saturnine but saturnalian turn? The West is in a state of Brexit and we […]

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Manhole covers in Kyoto are beautiful—embossed trees, flowers, intricate patterns— so I start to photograph them. I consider doing rubbings or linocuts.   Later I learn there are others, we are called ‘manholers’. It’s a huge trend.   More than 3,000 people attended a ‘manhole summit’ in western Japan in November. The Japanese sewage industry is releasing collectable cards of covers specific to each region.   And there are those with a specific interest in ‘cover bonsai’, the plants growing in soil accumulated on and around covers.   I hear David Marr on a panel at Gleebooks talk about his […]

after Martin Harrison, after Michel Deguy   The words are a silver lake, the wind blows a nova into your arms. When I wrote, buds of music opened in your reading.   There’s no escape, no one else will understand. The sound of my own sky falls on fields of withered flowers.   I return to speak with a drum of your death, the only sound (the years are a remnant forest) is a voice from the deep.   Someone kicks a stone in the street. I am falling, what if the rain could fall, make your grave green in […]

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im not singing any songs i just hum along and hope you find the faking beautiful by the glassy sky passing lonely times one time i came down and saw your shape in the rain bubbling with acquaintances your hair dropping like monet down from your face i walked with you halfway home and at the streetlamp you were singing i cant have fun while youre not having fun and you dont seem to have much fun when im around your antipodean shine repeating in my eyes like wizardry in the downpour and i said if you kiss me now […]

We sat on the porch that winter and
talked of murder, imagined bodies trapped
beneath the breaking crust of the field.