Hurt more | Hurry to where home should be | through the stones they throw at you | following your stench | an other odour in the snow | I | can’t be with you | too difficult for me | this is how | alienation goes | I hope it’s a valuable lesson | for both of us | Stay true | to the quirk they make of you | and safe for now | pause in an alley, run-down | a net of sparkle catches your bleeding eye | See, how the cobwebs work?

By phantom measures, the pain comes in | Where the children go, when they melt from our sight | our grasp | a place for neutral pineapples or old issues of Vogue | it’s an okay purgatory | not bad at all, really | a little | out-of-the-way, maybe, woozy, a bit lost | woods without riding hoods or wolves | a warehouse for mid-range goods | No thing to any man | that is a beggars’ lot | but why dwell on the fate of beggars? | Enjoy this largesse, my love | and lush nostalgia for the washed-out nineties | lying in a fever’s meadow | asters and parma violets | such hot bonds | for perfumed sugar on the breath | the sweetest hit | the tiny death | and in the rush | of songbirds and oxytocin | a desire to let in | a careless life | ending in | a squall of indifferent roads | so going | Hidden in our point of view | the wombs of various wars and shit | but how the spray | sparkles as it flies | see, through the firmament there! | You touched me right, too soon | Spilled, and went everywhere

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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