Our epitaphs

Do not speak of Charon, or any cold marble thing: that’s all just Greek to me. Your grandiloquent amphitheaters— columns and rows of allusion—only tease at monument. They ruin this moment. You are in your twenties and worry about the colour of parkas... how many people will attend your party... Find a homely metaphor I… Continue reading Our epitaphs


All these lies

All art is a lie. The truth is far more terrible than any tragedy or horror to be performed before us. Art is a polished shield through which Perseus viewed the Medusa to avoid her petrifying gaze... before lopping her head off for sport. I can only approach you through art... this poem is my polished shield and you are my Medusa, though I would never dare attack you— just gaze in woe at your beauty knowing I can never have you. But even this is not true: the truth is far more terrible again. The truth is bleak; devoid of imagery, and you do not look in my direction.

Fear of flying

bury me bury me! bury me right here bury me wherever you like bury me just bury me bury me in your fertility bury me! i just wanna make babies bury me in christian humility —some pretty story like that bury me just bury me bury me oh! marry me! marry me to technology marry… Continue reading Fear of flying