Bluing underwater,

a nymph

or maybe a Hindu god,

I stand over you, composting,

turning reason to sludge.

Why did you set yourself

timeless,

a deep daguerreotype

is prismatic wet?

Were you searching

for Atlantis, or a mermaid

to love you?

Were you listening

with too much intent

to the waves' sonata,

or the sighing shifting

of the sand?

Bluing underwater,

a nymph or Hindu god,

I wonder if like Krishna

you'll return

to the world of man.

    The Body Issue

He slithers

through my door

sheathed

in cellophane

and there he lies

naked

rippling

his smile

whiter than

polar bears

in sunlight

his tanned

English skin

darker even

than the Carib

in my genes

he's glossy

and shimmering

made of nothing

but paper

the perfect

beloved

indeed

    On The Kitchen Floor

Purpling flesh

slowly renders down to jelly

in the larder.

Her eyes

are the dead, pearly buttons

of fish at market.

Her hair splayed

across face and floor,

an extension of

the death rattle

to pour tangling from her mouth.

The grapes around her throat,

a bruised choker;

the depressed plum wristlets

marking her resistance.

I miss her,

and already the aga's chill

jostles painfully against

memories of before.

And there,

mere inches from her hand,

is a knife:

clean;

useless but

reached for.

The cellar door yawns,

cold and disinterested,

but I remain listless:

a witness

to it all.

    The Offer

Fag boy declines

your offer

to take part

in society

instead he turns

his back on

government

police and

money

he'll sit at home

write a poem

roll over in

his bed

he'll hike up hills

and sleep in caves

knead and bake

his own bread

fag boy sees

the snares you lay

the world with which

you trap

he wants to write

he wants to sing

he wants to kick back

Cadaverine Magazine 2009