Saturday, February 08, 2014

hurtface (after Ceravolo)

i come home late like a man
like a stranger // zebra-headed & foreign & sit 
down at the table to write poems cos i want to
put my key in the door & keen 
& cry for my flat old places
fall asleep on the keyboard 
& reblog the universe fuck 
with my long sad dick every last utensil 
  put on whiskey & strip
in the garden, have an irksome & scritchy
fight with next door’s pets // eat & vom the flowers
flowering on my face the face of 
        my stupidness today

i sing when i work & i work all the time
with lovely wifi & a sharp clean sharpie
& my big girl knickers all in a twist
around my throat.  i have drawn you
a face to wear & it is my face & it hurts
me.  but whatever comes you’ve come 
           thru the door & in your own 
face with your job & a bag of food –

o bum!  o joy!  o bloated world!
what dreams i am on the stairs of!

Thursday, February 06, 2014

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Grace Lake, from 'Silk & Wild Tulips'

"I read of women who have been found disregarding class, the heavy book
Bearing the sombre tone, we anyway tremble whilst we are broken down.
What is love? o what is love? the tip of a tongue, a silk white dove.
that will not fight and is crushed by speculation, a sinful breast
Cleansed, the surprising lightness in weight, the emphasis returned to
Provocation, that is the dead weight, that we cannot speak until
                                                         spoken to
And divided by omission are invited to attend to the traffic signals,
Indicating slips don't for one second imagine that i am in the least

Grace Lake, 'Silk & Wild Tulips' 

Wednesday, December 05, 2012


of all the things i thought i’d miss
i didn’t think i’d miss the snow
or you bounding down the road
toward me panting like a hungry dog

honey snow – yellow – bound
for melting & morning-piss cloudy
mouth-gas coffee tinted & desire
off the leash of normal loving

you’re like a day off school, lung-acher
spine-icer, night-muffler, & my life
is softer for your bundling in the middle
of the park in the middle of still living then

*A brand new poem written from my current residency at The New School House Gallery in York, responding to Helen Chadwick's Piss Flowers

Thursday, August 23, 2012


If I don’t see you tonight I might die
on Old Street, on New Change
at the old dyke bar in Centrepoint
or knee-deep in the marshes
shivering in the lidos the ponds
high on the heath or banging my head
off the brutal concrete at Southbank.

I wanna be your Mayakovsky
Bolshevik beatbox coming  
drumming at your chest your
dick made of stars pulls me in a
strapon galaxy we rotate around
on the DL on the underground
at the stadia the palaces we see
across a city filled with tourists
whose cash lights up the night
in which we dream with the window
wide & flies in to suckle
at our blood sweet & salt from
the ferric cup from which
we sip & come day we sit
to scratch & seep from each bite

& like an open window
I’ve kept myself ajar tonight
& like a wound that keeps refilling
I got buckets of love for you so come over.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

the way she bends

the way she bends:
like a sailor,
as luck would have
it. & i am

on television
the starship troops
are marching up
to beat us to
a pulp, for being
found wanting
too much: a place
to live, to not be
sick in, a fair
go at it all
or at it all

when i say us
i mean them -- i
am not there i
am with you, &
thinking we cling
to love in lieu
of anything just.

one step down from

dragged out beatings,
wreck of love's
dwelling, calling:
what threat is posed
by those who stand
for everyone
by kneeling in
copper nests
to feel the cold
smack of cash they
don't have? we have
cash, a little,
& are not
buying it.

being ‘personal’,
i’d say for sure
your love for me
is equal to
half of my love
for you [currency]

makes sense – i mean:
you wouldn't buy
yourself a present.
you wouldn't write
yourself a poem.
you can’t arrest
yourself in the
dead night or keep
yourself a secret.

& besides: if
i loved you like
i love my country –
if I loved you like
i love me you'd
be sorry. if i
loved you like i
love me you'd be
dead –
& what good would
you be to me

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

Sonnet 101

why is everybody always writing
about fucking like me the more writing
to be done the less time to do the
necessary fucking for poetry

which is just as well when “at a bar” or
side by side alone & almost having
sex but in the end we change our minds ‘cos
work is early/harsh work makes you nervous

lines up the days & besides you don’t love
each other so much today as yesterday
& that dwindle’s dampened the itch to do
anything but write some stupid sonnet

frigid at the kitchen table no damp
itch to speak of no great love to leap off