My dreams are your dreams’ pets. 


One-stop angry birthday poem

LOVE has gone off to fetch what you wanted

whether you’re tired or not, even if you’re asleep LOVE will wake you up snarling and

start bitching at you about why you’re spending your time on youtube looking at

baby manatees sneezing and dogs talking in Canadian voices

[which they’re starting on in universities now

which is a good reason for getting OUT while there’s still time]

LOVE has, like I said, got other plans that have to do with being angry and spitting blood and missing people you barely know and countries you’ve never been to under high plains or deep polar stars.

and like I said, fetching you what you said you wanted like a Halloween chemist with a fridge full of needles and fever creeping round the foundations and a wipe-that-smile-off-your-face smirk

pain, nausea, a six-month headache not touched by aromatherapy and iron bars between you and the night that don’t even dissolve with wine

like they used to, to go back and befriend that girl you missed without knowing, before LOVE came looking for you and smashed up the house you were born in

its been twenty-eight years since you had nothing to spend your birthday crying about and now when your mother comes to visit you’re not sure who bakes for whom

or should or whether you get to glory in creation if you don’t glory in yourself

but because you have LOVE you are still angry which is the greatest glowing technicolour gift of the ineffable all

it’s keeping you off the drugs, cycling without stabilisers, with your feet in the air as you piss yourself down hills

and giving you a silver tongue at the great spelling bee

and making you so hungry you’ll steal to eat.

so you’re not reading enough books anymore

you’re not reading any

you’re burning them nightly when the shivering starts

you’re slamming out chords on a borrowed piano and laughing in the open in cafes alone where children watch you singing like a gospel space-angel

because you are determined not to edit anything, even the real moments starting now


thank fuck for you huh

b/cause my other humour is childish

and unkissing exposes it

and someone might have a kick at it


that’s why i’m always listing what i have

and have not got

where my teeth should be, just slots

no licking licks, but listing.  


gets harder to fill and harder, by falling,

the chasm of island stars

whether in bar by brawling, bribery

fucking.boxing.bad guitar


or by sitting in quietly.

by reading spiritly

and growing cabbagy

writing not one singable song

that was not also wrong.


then this is harder than it looks

nowhere else at all you imagine

ever had forests/mountains/tao

no one had a singing voice


they could put out of a window

in californian like a canary

that would carry anything.


b/c no one ever washed their dishes and sang

stop believing in the power of Fairy Liquid

i have never been this far before

i have never been this far before.


although i have ever wondered

about being

of our ancestry

of our horizon where the clouds lay sleeping dogs

being of our forty generations and what came after

and the three men from the east who came after

the star were imaginary fathers,

and the three devils with worn shoes, they tramped after

and the three moons over the pines were my mothers

they left eggs and needles

all over the beaches,

under my fathers’ fragile moustaches!


i do not know what it looked like

when everything trumped itself

all the cockles warmed

a blood kindle cook-up with all their relations

in a big cookpot

when the vine in autumn with the

first l’ve

kissed with wet lips

or how the apples fell


but i went down to the water and i washed my face

among the clusters of crop

…start counting now

and do not stop until either you die

or something is forgiven

the long lines go further forever to the granaries at the end of the world.


i called out the fish and they came with their arms full of soft white glass

they were not hungry

if there is no need

there is no stumblinglight

and this world isn’t mine after all

but what it is comes to you slowly in shambles

and only when you’re ready.



now the horses are in the hills

the bees are ripe every one

you, drawn by the moon on a flickering wing

of my hair each strand where

peaches grow

even in winter


and still in time with each other.


Charlton Heston is hiding my peace in his beard

sure as a drum skin

flatten, grasses, see the sun’s

horizontal eye closing.

come to the edge of the water, Pharoah

for the voices of the crickets are under your skin,


the brown rocks the dry remains

of your generations, their golden blood

is the mouth of the mud that snaps at your ankles.


come to the edge with

a thousand lost empires in your ruby teeth, Pharaoh,

and gnash until your mouth bleeds.

the exodus goes on without you,

whether or not you can bring yourself to say it.


You Ruin of the Orchestras, blot out

the desert’s whispers under Your Thunderous Sunset!

and on the looms of trumpets

gather the tatters of Israel into a cloth

flung open on a thigh.

open the gates

let slip secrets.

(like how to love without envy,

how to walk without legs, righteously,

how to rejoice in the promise of apples

how to follow maps inside your heart

how to have trust and not be broken)