Death of a romantic

In the beginning,
there was supposed to be a prince
who would come pick me up
and take me to a remote land
where we would have babies.
There used to be that cheese.

it was agreed there would be a big-bang
and some blood spilt, when we first met.
It was agreed that that instant
would breed a high voltage wire
linking our souls of true alter egos, and then
a war for years, war of egos,
of jealousies and addictions.
He would throw words at me, clasping my wrists,
I would throw swords at him, and pages of my books
that he would eat, rabid, to say they’re crap,
burping their ink over our sheets, and I
would roll in them naked to be bathed in his spit, lie there
blackened, and welcome his assaults, the tongue
licking it off, the febrile claws unstea-
dily checking I could still moan,
and it still moved, that chest. Then a
whole night would freeze and a lamp burn
while we shared a pillow and swore
to do better next time.

No doubt,
there would be divorces
until we’d used all the lawyers,
a fear of each other, a defiance,
that impression he made on my blasée
resignation; sparkles, sparkles. That dependence.
He would cheat on me with the hardly ripe,
I would attempt treason, he would smoke in my nose,
yell ‘our love is stronger!’, fuck me in-
between doors, make me cry at windows.
Hanging on to curtains. I’d leave
the house to go for walks, he’d leave
the house to go for months. Waiting
in the lobby, Penelope, weaving and unweaving
my nerves, trashing his books,
til he’d come back with a new kiss
or a biting technique to preserve me
superglued to his lips.
And some days we would be genius
and write down our drama, turn it into classics
in several tomes.

You see,
I had heard of Sylvia and Ted,
read of Sartre and de Beauvoir,
Zelda and Scott, many others,
and watched their lives on screens.

Those myths.

Now I know
that they want peace like old Scobbie,
and fun. Good meals in front of the TV,
a mistress or two on the side, allowed,
and above all no scenes.


Chronique du souvenir

Je veux tout mourir avec toi
et t’offrir des virginités
à l’infini.
Je chancelle à ta voix, me pends à ton visage
avec la démesure de l’envahie.
Les prisons m’encerclent, et je me
Pastilles d’amertume,
traversez-moi les nerfs,
je tombe.
Il paraît que je suis une assommée.

La marée perd
du temps
quand je perds
des couleurs.

A quoi ne suis-je liée, alliée, si ce n’est
aux églises ?
Tu prêches pour l’angoisse
et tes bavures vertes
qui tapissent
mes yeux de salamandre.
Je me dédis, dédis, dédis.

Mon doigt a claqué l’air plus fort qu’un défilé.
C’est l’heure de notre amour…
à quelques années près.
Nous étions jeunes,
sans ces décennies de secondes :
je buvais des slogans, et tu traçais
des majuscules.
Je pressais tes paupières de menteur
et je les découpais.
Tu n’as plus de sourcils, vendus
à qui, aux assassines
un à un ?

Prophète qui croyais au vide,
il n’est pas sorti de mes tripes.
Tous ces sursauts,
toutes ces embolies,
brûle-les, brûle-les.

J’ai plein de langues pour te donner la main.

Play dead


We act heroes and thieves;
we thrive, on stage and back-,
between curtains. We hold
knives, machetes. Tadam.

Your soul, I can read it,
reproduce it. I can copy your mind.
Marshmallow, marshmallow – a wall.
Mellow mellow, then harsh; raggèd.
In this scare I wallow.

O we
are no sissies.
We men.


I play no strings attached;
I was thrown in, coerced into freedom.
I own not love, objects of love;
I get a taste,
a sip – I get the trailers
of peut-êtres.

Soliloquies of bullied bones –
break break break – hear
the cracks.

I sillily sulk.

Sordid silence.

God strings spread from my every nerve.

Days on end

Us two

Our towns, cities, mock us,
us who wanted and felt,
making maze of our craves,
sowing Sohos, stubborn
rows of Sohos, the traps,
across their grounds and lawns.
we go round and round
through those boroughs, my fly,
stealing our rest
from the breasts of Neros,
sit on pavements and lick windows,
the displays of our hopes, of the keys to our hopes,
all ours to have

on five-
day loans.

Us who wanted and felt.

We reply with moments.
We write pictures, draw words.

We have our feathered masks,
our sunglasses for breath,
our worthless
of mind
to kill the days on end.

To the lighthouse

Please follow me to the lighthouse:
there we will meet our horizon
in a parcel of endless sea.

This where the soil is soiled –
our future is written in oil
(read it through your gas mask).

I shall drag you along,
you my silly,
holding onto your severed arm
picked up in Russell Square
one freezing night

walking towards a McDonalds
that will always be closed
when we reach it pining
for the cheeseburger-graal,
ice-statufied, half-satisfied
for another year-long winter
we did survive, didn’t we.

We did – did we
(oh oh really?)

And you who had to smoke
endured much more than us
underneath a black coat.

(It’s always black you choose –
please colour up, my love thingie).

Yeah I don’t know why we do this.
Dunno dunno,
Dumbo Rambo.

Quite so.
(Quite. So?)

Quite every single time we said,
‘yeah I don’t know why we do this’,
nudging each other’s severed arm
from Russell Square to Tottenham,
we sighed
‘we know we should buy gloves
for the cold fish fingers
we left in the freezer –
and why do we linger
in this death zone
by minus three? – I do worry
about our life expectancy, my youngs,
my friends we know
most expertly how to destroy,
how to blow up the blabla blah
(give us a but-
-ton we’ll push it
across the tainted sky):
and let’s not kid

of course we never thought
the bus would come on time.’