Selection from Echolocation

The demon and the dog whirl in space, the knives are out, flashing, and shame.

She makes you eat spit and he who gives you shelter is already a refugee. She is a carrier for screams fortified with use and he has lost his fuck.

Everyone is innocent, contagious.

The sea is in a sweat. More salt, more salt. The salt chain moves faster. You keep dissolving but you never finish your book, it is a roaring thirst, the jaws of a lion ajar through the night, roaring without stop. More water, more water.

Wash your wine in my blood, ripe veins, bruised rivers setting in the sea.

Eat a sponge raw heart with your hands, blood streaming elbows, black rash stain on vampire tongue.

Sleep with fingers open for new sensations.

Into your glass of red, a cloudspill slashing, tasting your colour.

A crescent fingernail scratches the spyglass, arching its back, exhaling calcium moon.

Wings scatter on waxpool caldera.

Views not parodied by descriptions, allowed to live and die, a cusp, from appearance to dis.

Close your eyes, imagine the view, open your eyes, replace the view with edge to edge identical copy of the original.

Framed by the window, held by both eyes; if you close your blinds, the birds and stars cannot see you.

A bird’s eye: Thinning rivers, half eaten mountains, bending lakes, mild agitations of sea fur.

Clouds rush their journeys, just in case.

The world is no more than an old word. You can go from dedication to deadication, from host to ghost, but I can carve you out of the air again, unearth your shreds, float my eyelash back into the old oceans.

How did you think you would stop talking to me, I never hung up the telepath.

I have not remembered you, but I have not forgotten you.

Echolocation. Hong Kong: Chameleon Press 2003. ISBN: 988-97060-2-4.

For lipstick she used a razor, a bloom in slow-mo, her mouth a widening blur.
Blood smells of blood, recognize it. The fumes bring in dogs off the
street, begging for a kiss. My heart is smeared all over her lips.
Transparent as a ruby, bright enough to wear, painted in your blood, Iím
your new baby.
The tide in your veins is a longwinded narrative walking us to where we
began.
Faster, finite, using up the beats.
I pluck the corollas for the red dew. The exhalations. Pearls.
It is always midsummer. The smell of death is also the smell of birth.

Two can play silence. Silence for two players. The time it takes to play
silence.
We seize the silence together, own it separately.
You plant a silent minefield, I walk on it, flashes of meaning exploding
in my head.