date night: fat lip



temple to temple

sex marks the spot

it’s just four small letters,

a microwave and a dog basket

shy from (real) love


there’s a mile-wide, shrill divide

the snag to post-marital bliss

in pretending we’re here (sometimes) and

pretending we don’t exist


so let’s bitch and eat crisps

and nourish this flaccid guilt

together, for the kids

date night: door



I don’t even get to say

That I swing both ways,

Because she won’t even look at me.

But this is par for the course,

Head off at ninety,

Peeling labels off sauce,

Amassing salt,

I’ve seen it all before.


What was it she said?

Transparent? One-sided?

A pushover? Unhinged?

As critique, it’s technically weak,

As I have two sides, at least

And four hinges, at the time of press,

And some kinder souls might allow that,

A glass heart ne’er did harm

To fair wench, lest a gentleman hold me ajar,

With his limbs outstretched

And wait and wait but remain unchecked.

And also, i might add, if I  may,

This coat’s fresh on today.


No exit, no fires, no names in lights,

Royal timber, hewn from evergreen block,

From chainsaw blade and sopping twine,

To brassy pushplates and a fat waiter’s behind

That is my jamb, my friends, that is my jamb.

And who goes on a date with a door?

Maybe this isn’t a date, more a fixture.

No, wait, this is a date.

I’m a fixture.

remote work

Network cables_2

copywriter required

six cents a word

proven track record

personal best

for hot-eye clickable content

for fresh young online pub

kicking out jams on

pool halls and tar pits

lyme disease and squash

penny whistles and two-bed lofts

caramel phagocytes and silkworm thought

turmeric-colored sweater vests and ambient chalk

the magnetic hills and first-look tomtom pranks

old-school broken necks and winter’s breathy chuckle

the fifteen percent of people who think in french

when they make fuck with their partners

in south-southeastern ontario

six cents a word

six cents a word

six cents a word



a curt delinquent glide

eyelids slide from side to side

hang; over builder’s yards

suburban sprawl, no sound

for a mouse is a mouse, after all


i hope you don’t walk over

everyone like this

not everybody’s concrete

or heavy sand

there are some whose feet are made of clay

inscribed with feathers

they fly unsure

too close to the ground

listing, to and fro

without sound

and you know who they are

i hope you don’t walk over

everybody like this

in your dollar store sneakers

and capitalist genes

evolved, like no other

to symbolise fear

and the shock of the nude

a fornication of ideals

and the stillborn bloodshot hump

of a blistered nation

given up and over

in it’s salad years

i hope you don’t walk over

everyone like this

make of this what you will

the template of whore

you know tearing off

thin strips of ripped skin

is not massage anymore

not in anyone’s book

but it’s a catwalk snap

trapped nerves and singularities

winking at paparazzi and working it

back to me every time

with your size fives

walk/don’t walk – green light/red light/wait

online, wasting time, blind

drunk footfall on my spine

I hope you don’t walk over

everyone like this

brighton: new neighbourhood


porn stars and pilots

malevolent land gulls and girls

who smell like parma violets

dead mouse

that roadhouse feel

behind bars or planchas

disproportionately gummy

inky tarantulas

freshly pressed blondes

sharp nose and sourdough

an unforgivable scene

deep ellum grove

it sounds like a blue note

tender control

fleet geeks and herberts

little jack’s corner

coca cola and sherbet

floor her and fawn her

pubic transpurt

Long Road, Clapham Common

oh, why can’t we just have sex?

you like me and i like you

so why can’t we just do it?

yes, right here in this bus stop

ok, well, maybe not here

but somewhere close by

in the very near future

why can’t that happen?

i don’t understand

no, i don’t want to talk any more

and coffee gives me gas

dinner?  don’t push it, love

i just want to have it off with you

you know, in the old fashioned way

naked, just the two of us

no talking, only porking

a date? oh for fuck’s sake

the moment’s going, love

why can’t we just bang?

instead of holding hands

and me trying to make you laugh

and saying anything

literally, anything

to get your clothes off

things along the lines of

“yes, my favourite colour’s teal” and

“no, i want to take my time, too…”

do i shit!

all i want to do is hump you senseless

on the futon back at my flat

it would be great

we could do loooooads of jiggy jig

and then eat jaffa cakes

and watch Match of the Day

what do you say?

what do you mean you’ve got to go?

your bus is here?

the number eight?

brilliant, that’s near where i’m staying

we could bonk on the bus

if you’re running late

or on the steps of your house

if you really can’t wait

hey, don’t look at me like that

like i’m some dirty perv

only after one thing

what a nerve! As if!

is that what you think of me?

we’ve only just met

and all I can think of

is parting your legs?

that is pretty astute, to be fair

so, yeah…

is this going anywhere?

i didn’t think so

you made it quite clear

when you called the police

when i sniffed your hair

though, it’s not all bad

the cop shop’s right next to my gaff

i can walk home from there



if i see it in the reader

i don’t think i need to

read the full feature

so i  “like” it and run

and just keep scrollin down

searching for the gravatars

of the three or four out there

who i actually care about

sometimes, i forget

and lose my timing

panicking and liking

that 8,000 worder

on the history of albanian goat herders

that they only put up 8 seconds ago

so it must seem most unlikely

to them, at the other end

that i’ve read the lot

and digested it and considered the fate

and health of albania’s late great agricultural wealth

in fact, it might appear

that i’ve only read the first ten words

and then swerved off course

consumed by my vice

of pressing “that” button

that’s the real life social equivalent

of calling something “nice”

lower case i


the average boy or girl

has a vocabulary of

seventy five thousand words –

if that’s right

how come my son

can’t form a sentence without using “like”

at least once or twice

and he can’t seem to limit

his use of “innit?”

no matter how hard he tries –

and if I hear him say “bruv” one more time

to anyone other

than his actual brother

I’m gonna go nuts – I’ve had words with his mom

she seems to think it’s a fad, a phase

that he’s going through and that

all of a sudden he going to start

spouting off verse like wordsworth or coleridge

and riffing on tolstoy with his head in the fridge

i’m not as optimistic as my spouse

because i’ve heard the crud that drops from his mouth

when in the company of friends

when it’s all “rad, yeah, totally” and “d’you know what i mean?”

Well, i’d know what you meant if you enunciated better

and didn’t confuse me by forming every sentence

with a question mark at the end(?)

i know that language is alive

therefore, it must evolve

a new word is invented every ninety seconds

or so i’m told

it’s just that at school, i had grammar class

and yes, it was dry and uninspiring

all gerunds and subjunctives, naming words

passato prossimo and reflexive verbs

but most of it went in

and now i’m glad that i know where to place

apostrophes’ (joke) “and” parentheses 

and it’s with this wisdom

that i can commit the greatest parental

cardinal joy, that of projecting my childhood misery

onto that of my favorite boy