I remember now, why I hate my sister

It’s not because of the big things,

Although they don’t help.

It’s because of the static, unmoving rigidity

Of her will

And her ire

And her farce.

The house on the hill – One further poem

My mother never loved my father,

A man who even at the best of times was a drunk and a gambler.

Whether she loved me was a question I thought of habitually

And to some great extent,

But with little in the way of conclusion.

I was in love once.
Now I am again.
This love feels so much smaller, though,
Than the love I felt back then.

That place out there

I think I see temples and mountains and purple sky but in the blink of an eye something new and the sky is back to blue and the train leaps right on through dark tunnel walls dripping, rhythmic drops inches keeping us from rock sparks in pitchest black limbs clawing for the tracks then light […]

Wiggle wiggle – a poem

Wiggle wiggle

Waggle waggle

Twisting, turning, house is burning,

Wiggle wiggle waggle waggle woo.

I’m going to Japan

Which is of interest to nobody, so instead here’s a poem about pretending to be a dog during sexy times that I wrote in five minutes.

This Town Has People In It

People with lives, lives like shooting stars, gleaming and bright and rare, rare as grass that’s green, water that’s blue.

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