Exile from Eden, Pt 1 | trying to find a phone that works | Strange bathrooms | blusher, and moisturiser | body scrub, with jasmine, jojoba | Three nights | of lightning and thunder | barrels of diamonds | splitting and spilling | Sleep, at bay | never quite… | … Trying to get… | … Oh! …

Raking through bones, looking for thoughts | In airliner time, somewhere over Kazakhstan | Roll your body clock down a dark hill | let it rest on its side in long grasses, cooled | by a dew of alcohol | Cloven- | hooved officials with clipboards and uniforms | scented moustaches, blonde hair | flown in | from the Steppes | Forms to fill in | fill out | fill in | fill out… | Go | Get a cab | Leave the country, and your old lover | who smells of fresh wet peppers but | lost years | So tired of the sound of that chopping board | Dereliction has become a duty | From this, you know it must be | Exile from Eden, Pt 1 | The first of a trilogy…

Idle on the crowded shore | The ferry’s late, Charon | nowhere to be seen | sidle off, head for a quiet bar | Slip away | from the reception, Italian | ambassador | nowhere to be seen | Dig your heels | into your smiling horse, spur | on the cocaine merry-go-round | ride away | into the sunrise | Find shade | under the creak and rattle | of a fat old palm | listen to the sea’s | liquid bulldozer | number-crunch the sand | back and forth | At the theatre, look for the most | discreet box | Shorten the play | Cut even the chase | Not to be

Exile from Eden, Pt 2 | No one wants their days, anymore, especially | not this day | Sailors, looking bored with the voyage | they only signed up | for the shipwreck | will it be long | till the storm? | all their faces say | they have no taste | for fine weather | And already, you’re | hankering for Pt 1, it’s par for the course, part of the deal | a cabinet | with odd | pills and lotions | and making love, like | raking through embers, searching for flames

So many ways | to be forgotten | knapsack on your back | stout stick | to build a life | of setting off | stout boots, stout heart | bright, clear autumn air | no need for a P.S. | no place for a memo | To hell with Pt 1! | This, you think, will do | A hangover | like the roar and clang of a fire | engine in heaven | and at night Mandelstam | kirsch | Turkish cigarettes | hours and hours | letting out the sleek | line of a wish | drifting alone | down unknown streets | anonymous and free | hop | from restaurant to inn | at dusk to the river | through nondescript alleys | nothing on your mind | when, on rounding a corner | quite unexpectedly | you bump | into the Italian ambassador


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder (open-ended, 2012–present)

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