It’s an up-risingIt’s a down-fallingIt’s layers and layers and layers Of soilOf concreteOf pain and lossOf searching and wonderingOf saying ‘this is our tūrangawaewae’Of blank stares, of disbelief, of eye rolls,‘ka pai, that’s what you say’ It’s not so much what I sayIt’s what isIt’s what we’ve knownIt’s what we knowIt’s the revelations that keep…
Journaling is an act of autoerotic eviscerationSpilling my guts for my own pleasureAnd stamping around in the juices like a toddler in a puddleMy promethean navel barely heals by the morningIt weeps serous fluid and soaks my sheetsMeaning I always wake up to a damp shirt and pants The first time I slept with my…
Two children sit listening to the rain.His fingers drum upon his seatbelt, she keepsChecking social media, despite getting zero bars.Grown now, they are no longer beholdenTo adults idling at the pub, or the menaceOf the one-armed bandit stealing their dinner. The rain continues downward, a thick pelt.Maneuvering out of the Skyline, they findThemselves surrounded by…
On that first morning we found something left for us on the cabin’s steps; a small pink glove of a thing, curling on itself in the morning sun. Some private part or organ, not meant for seeing—ex, one might say, formerly, out of, or disembodied. For the next three days the burning Foehn ripped through…
but there’s a lot of detail I don’t havethough I guess I could ask them but they don’tknow that I know what I know that they thinkI don’t yet know but that’s why they’re parentsand not children but on the other handthey have parents, too, though all four are deadbut that’s not my fault, I’m…
I met a man tonightwho was tryingto diebut didn’trealise the seriousnessof his position— supine, the mountainof his middlecountry rising smoothand round,lava seethingunderneath would leave himboxed and coldbut then, when openedup, they stuffedthat magma backwithin its cone and triumphant,as his woundswere stitchedI told him he wouldget homeand still had time so he shook his heada little…
The tulips droop, Diana. Theywere yellow when you passedto me their slim gauze-wrappedbodies and last night they burgeonedinto burning orange, but now theylist down the neck of the vase, Diana,reaching for the floor or death.The stems have rotted, Diana, Ido not know how this happens, my friend.I pulled a bulb and it separated from itsumbilical…
‘I carried my mother as she carried me.’—John Campbell, ‘My Mother’ Not quite. Your funeral mass now over,undertakers paired off the family lifts;your three sons the main pallbearers(I with my brother, the tallest one). Each side of you we awkwardly manoeuvre—six foot and five six. Comedy’s dark gifts—even now I didn’t take my fair shares.…
Tissue paper flowers by the beddead.They have a nameI don’t know itjust call themtissue paper flowers. I bought them so I wouldn’t have tochange the dragonsnapswhen mould slithered around the stemssat bobbing in the water liketiny nordic gnomes. These were the least dead looking deadI mean driedflowers I could findbecause the petals stay pinkpurple and…
untamed dark airflowing across the night windowsrippling into the mouthof our rumbling heat-pumpthat labours to filter outthe scent of iceon hedgehog spikethe musk of windon frozen reedsthe taste of steamrising like a balletfrom the dark waterswhile we wander dreamingthe atmosphere is sweptof outliersof irregularitiesof bristling pheromonesfloating like sea minesdeleted messagestrying to reach us Chris Parsons…