cars will one day reside in the museums of hate

A star of many colours over fields of unlimited concrete
hangs like a drag queens dress claiming its own space
in the window.
I'm growing horns. I wear the lost crucifix to ward off the pains
of illness. Everything is cold and still
the quivering lips of the clay head are cracking to life.
And suddenly its all a bunch of horse-shit, this not being afraid.


The sounds we hear in our daily lives
are unstructured and come to us as random intakes
There is a music of solitude
and a music of intimacy

Touching warm ash
between the fingers
kissing every stray hair
fragrance and gesture

snuff out the candles together
your hand fits with mine
jigsaw fingers link
pulsing warm like a mother

It was the winter of strikes, couldn't pass the sweet shop without staring.
The fist brought down hard on the table, sympathetic hands laid on his shoulders
and one realizes "to be a man" is quite another matter.

Underneath the court yard in a dungeon,in a palace ruled by a tortured emperor,
lay a Tiger cub whose mother was killed by the Archbishop's hunting party
yesterday morning. I thought then that it was wrong but I was only the cooks
son, so for three quarters of my life I was invisible. The curse of this being
I was privy to the most debased and loathsome of human affairs, which weaved
the cradle in which our young ones now suckle.
My mother was a whore, I say this with no shame or as a blemish upon her.
My father was a ghost, brave and violent ghost. I promised through my tears
that I would chase down his dreams and tell them what they missed.
But I never once cried out his name when my dreams were being butchered.