in the beginning

was the word.


a mute note:

void; unheard.


it ascended the throat

(that choked-up aisle)


to the mouth, baptised

in a pulpit of spit and enamel.


syllables strained at the pews of the teeth,–

congregating in phrases and aching to speak.


the tongue is an altar.

it alters my sermon-song.


my words dissolve

before i have begun


“Involuntarily, I glanced seaward – and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away”

 – F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Great Gatsby’


Across the digital bay

a beacon, small and green,

flashes, and is gone.


The current: silent, static,

but for a spare grey tick –

the crest of curious interest


not piqued enough to peak

and break the radio-waves.

On Hopper’s ‘Morning Sun’


Woman in an urban womb,–

A martyr to the morning sun.


Imprisoned; prismatic. A shore

For the brutal brood of shades which teeth outdoors,–


A palate, pacifying to milky hues.


She’s hostage to the high-rise light,

With thoughts like an Atlantis, unexplored.


Outward-glaring, never to gaze behind,–

To swim in the sea-green mirage of her mind.







From Sylvan Scene to Silver Seas

Airborne swimmer, in flight, she does not cling to herself; she is dispersible, prodigious, stunning, desirous and capable of others, of the other woman that she will be, of the other woman she isn’t, of him, of you.                                                                                                                                                –  Hélène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa, p. 260

Oak-dark eyes.

Lips, bitten, blossom forth



They ache to explore

That dark and dew-sweet place

Where tongues – like vines – embrace.


The stirring swell of waves

Which urge to break between her thighs

Come to crest,– collapse in salt-edged tides.


Brown bed of earth, still fresh and warm with love,

Now hold me tight

Irradiations, XIV, John Gould Fletcher

It’s time to set ourselves in fertile soil,–
To brace the toil of transfer, thresh
Through wasted weeds with a harvest caress.
Our bodies, bit by frost, are shrunken, frail.

With shovel-hands we’ll dig to loam, once-warm,–
Richer earth exists below
This crystal crust,– depressed with snow
But melting into minerals as we thaw.