Accessibility Tools

  • Content scaling 100%
  • Font size 100%
  • Line height 100%
  • Letter spacing 100%

Poem

What’s missing from this floor?
The furniture, but also the reason

... (read more)

Cento after Peter Steele

Is this not running wild?
Silk-white ashes of dream and film
nerve into drama −
into darkness and its minotaur

... (read more)

How likely is it that the fellas who have
moved onto a place down the loop, who
are bricking their crossover, are named
Comatos and Lacon? That they have

... (read more)

In winter the garden
like the back of our mind

a faint young sun.

... (read more)

There’s a still point in the afternoon
when the cross-eyed dogs
in the smudged pet-shop window
are a distraction:

... (read more)

Underneath everything we touch is the smell
Of something too obvious to express
And yet we say there is nothing, nothing at all.

... (read more)

We met at the end of the party
when all the lights were fouled
with drink and even the self-titled
Ouzo Animal was yawning in protest

... (read more)

The day the UFO stopped below the esplanade,
they interrupted the war for an ad break.

... (read more)

You walked with me

that day, or night, I wasn’t walking
perhaps, maybe I wasn’t me

... (read more)

In the half-light, we walk through woodlands that keep lost
children and old stones, shadowed by pines that seem to breathe
small prayers into the wind. Joggers weave silently around
tombstones like night creatures and we stare at them like ex-

... (read more)