I make her a mirror
force it down her throat

tell myself I must do it
or she will never see herself

like I see myself
as she stands 
bathrobed

choking on her thoughts
 
 
 
 

Boredom of The Mother Earth

my orchard grows
rotten pears

Styx cuts
through acid soil

my field warps 
male seed 

plants push
head downwards

bored

bored

I stick the fork of thought 
into your softest piece

wave the fork
through the window

and with your helpless flesh
I tease the birds
 
 
 

Rhetoric

o
be warned
I crave your craving 

I wash
from a murky pitcher

seductively smooth
my mesh metaphors

climb the sinful sequence

and - head tilted -
drive signs into my fingers
left on the keyboard in unsupervised play
 

o 
be warned
I'm after your head 

I inject 
subcutaneous claims

bare soft sentences
attack with attributes
descend with drama

my rhymed stiletto 
gleams above you

my silver stake
goes through your heart
at crossroads at night
 
 
 
 
 

Dream Sequence

when I dream of you
I am on a table
observed: the rough/smooth of oak
and you, a knowing finger
tracing my form
 

when I dream of you
I see my flesh between your fingers
my hair your fistful
your food my face
 

when I dream of you
you use my warmth
and, fermenting into 

a yeasty, whimpering mass
don't know yourself
but I do
 
 
 
 
 

The Art of Love 

Your face beneath me
buzzes and gathers honey 

from the tiny trunk 
of a lavender flower 

you pry open the shell
pull out the pearl 

lick the river stone 
grind the gold lumps

and work adornments
into the altar of limbs 

while Ovid is giggling
around the corner
 
 
 

Belgrade
(a nursery rhyme)

i stand small
on the corner of 
where my love began
where my loves began

with my airline life
in a buckle-strap 
and a tiny cross 
in my pocket map 

i stand small
on the bit of land
arid land
arid arid land

i watch lives
zoolike lives
and each of them has
different-coloured eyes
 
 
 

Return to Kalevala 
 

I will lie down 
tired of travel

let my hair grow slowly 
wind along the river bed

A silver lake 
rippling beneath me 
a fairy language 
wailing inside me 

the bird of time
will land on my knee
and lay a hot 
iron egg

I'll jerk my knee
and out of the broken egg
a world will grow