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