there is no shade
or grade 
of clay

that should ever be counted 
as more valuable, 
more worthy of the attention 
of learned men 

than actually 
making 
a 
vase.

but I can’t
help my-
self

I’ve been reading a lot 
about thieves

and now I think 
every ‘Christmas’
I’ll dress up as Saint Nicholas

(that is
I’ll dress up as a 
very beneficent 
shadow;

that’s all I 
am)

but I can’t 
help my-
self

I’ve been reading a lot 
about thieves

fashioning myself out of 
the precision and flash of Mickey Bricks

the concern and subtlety of Nate Ford

grifters are my missionaries

but I can’t
help my-
self

would that shepherds 
would tend to their flocks

would that wolves 
would eat grass

so we did what we could,
so we did the impossible,

we stole abstracts, for

would that wolves 
were shepherds

but I can’t 
help my-
self

notice, by the way,
that the best of them are still
just like us,

greedy,

wanting for themselves - 

‘let’s take the spoils
and stop being Robin Hoods,

some of us like 
to eat, y’know’

(what does Saint Nicholas
get for Christmas?) -

and I learn from that too,

because sometimes 
I want to steal

a smile,
a kiss,
a love,

and I tell myself
to focus on giving people

the peace of mind
they’ve lost,

and it works 
for a bit

but I can’t 
help my-
self…

sometimes i feel like
a gospel song

is just a love song
to a broken man

whose distrust of your affection
runs so deep

that you have to serenade him in the square
just for him to love you back.

there’s this smell
that reminds me constantly of
one Sunday in my childhood
when I watched the Aladdin TV series

and then that reminds me 
of a game our grandmother made us play 
where if we did all our chores all week
we’d win a bag of chocolates on Sunday

(our grandmother was a wise woman)

and I’d do all mine
because I loved to wash dishes, I was grand at it,
and I loved to sweep floors, I was horrible at it,
and I loved trying to get my mother’s attention, and it never happened,
but my grandmother

would kiss me on the cheek
and pat me on the head 
and say ‘Here,’

and I’d sit at the TV
and watch The Book of Virtues that Sunday

and eat every single 
drop of sugar I had won.

I’m not saying all this because 
that smell wafted past me

on a walk to the corner store 
or while I was reading a book.

I’m saying all this because 
anything that has a memory with Grandmother in it

is something I miss 
as badly as I do her 
kissing me on the cheek and 
patting me on the head and 
saying, ‘Here,

have a reward for 
being you’.

Nobility is
wanting a shot of Irish whisky really badly

but just paying for the smell.

just a sip’s enough,
pouring into me like hot light
and tormenting every inch of me 

in ways I could 
more than get used to being tormented.

just a sip’s enough 
to be ablaze for hours;
just a sip’s enough 

for me to feel pleased 
and yet still thirsty;

just a sip’s enough 
to scramble all my thoughts

til my addled mind could only
imagine the sensation 

of one sip more.

a.
(he said)
I would make a hot cup 
of whatever flavour of tea I liked 
for someone who simply reaffirmed 
my own braggadocio 
or wore a cape against my own insecurities.

Choke if you think 
it’s funny - 

I deserve to be placated 
even if it’s at the cost 

of the peace 
of the Pez dispenser 
that gives me that love I want.

b.
(I said)
I take issue with the fact that 
someone should love me when 
I don’t think I like things people love.

I think things people 
are intrigued by, 
scribble in notes of quirks 
or write tweets about

but not things 
people smile about.

They told me I wasn’t lovely

and I trusted their opinion

They told me they didn’t want to talk about it any longer

then They told me they wished I wasn’t so hesitant to talk

then They told me they wished I got it

I don’t get it

They told me I never really loved anyone
because how could he really love anyone

when he’s afraid to ask people
to feel the same way about his fears 
as he does about theirs?

They still tell me
I should talk more.

I tell them
__ ____ ________ _______, ___ ___’_ ____ ______
__ __ _______.

c.
(_ ____)
Sometimes I wonder 
what an afternoon would feel like 
if I could wake up in that afternoon’s morning
and just rest all of me on a plate,
wrapped in cellophane and 
sealed with a kiss;

what the cold would feel like 
if I could get warm in you;

what my regular silences would translate to
if I could give you a dictionary and 
some of my typical rested phrases 
and ask you to give it a shot.

Sometimes I 
build living rooms 
in my fingers’ valleys

and spend lonely moments 
in their corners
with the fireplace’s critical tongue 
lashing the air in front of me.

Don’t lie, though,
I need to be reminded that 
I am a man whose 
thoughts you are resistant to,

or that will be an in
and I will con you out of all your calm,

take off in an unmarked carriage
and dance in all their golden splendour.

Let me know
I should stay silent,

I should not say things 
that spook you,

I should not say things 
that cut you off

when you feel like you’re drowning
or your lungs are full 
or your lungs are cut out.

I will hear that -
trust me, I will hear

that song I’ve grown up on.

I may not hear much else.

That isn’t grand, I know,
but even when I try to learn another

this is the melody I know,
veiling truth because

They do not think I can hit that note very well.

I know - 
‘I’m not them,’ you cry.

But you’re a chorister.
You give me the song sheet
and ask me to follow 
from one idea to the next 
past breve asides and quavering resolution.

I don’t know the song.
I only know its rests.

(_ ____ _ _____ ____ 
_________ ________ 
___ __ __ _____,

___ _____ ___ 
____ ___ ____ _ ____?)

Yes. I understand.
The Great Commission
makes heretics of the silent.

Unfortunately for you,
so does the revolution.

your mother slept under rust
to keep you safe

and slept upon rust 
to keep you safer

you don’t tell anyone about that.

the laws of physics
are often out of the control of unstoppable forces

and the policies of sociology
are often out of the control of immovable proletariat

you don’t tell anyone about that.

some things are granted
some things are taken

some things granted are taken

some things, granted,
are granted

some things are taken for granted

you don’t tell anyone about that.

some times you can’t find the fuse
in time

so you blow up in a kind of secret

you don’t tell anyone about that
(they’ll figure that last part out,

you think,

but you’d think we’d figure out the first few things 
in their order
like we’re supposed to).

listen,
this is how people are multifaceted:

they ask for you because they would like to see you.
they don’t because
they would like to see something or someone else or
they’re currently in the throes of distraction or the pangs of distraction or
sleep has burrowed into the eye sockets or
they can’t help you or
you can’t help them or
this is about something entirely different than
you,
maybe even entirely different than
them;

when you say 
“I get that you’re upset, but 
can’t you get that I’m more upset now than you can be?”

you’re really just sanding the fulcrum
that you want so badly to be able 
not to slide off the bars of,

so maybe
use your inside voice
when you’re disobeying your rules?

replace your mirrors with 
an ebony sculpture that reads

‘people are 
like I am.
people want things 
like I do -
not at the same time, 
not in the same doses,
not in the same shapes.
no one’s done me wrong 
by being just like I am to me.
they are not villains 
for disliking my favourite green tea 
or jumping low when I jump high,
because, above all else, they try.’

the hard battle is 
that sometimes people throw
as much as you punch, or 
punch as much as 
you kick.

learn something new 
or perish;

learn that people know 
something else 
or perish alone.

and for the love of the game,
maybe a spectator doesn’t know 
your dedication to it all

but sometimes 
spectators have score cards,

sometimes 
spectators are themselves disgraced players,

and at the very least 
don’t stop in the middle of a play 
to shout.

prove him wrong
or take his notes.

you used to be an announcer yourself.

break your mirrors quick,
or you won’t see enough about you.

when you want really badly
to tell a secret:
‘hey, you,
i’ve fancied you before 
and in between the still winds of your silence
for months and months 
i’ve forgotten what it felt like to fancy you
til your voice rang again, rich and clear, 
and i’ve fancied you again;

forgive me,
feeling noticed tastes so sweet
and i crave it when i become reacquainted,

i think,
i think,
i think i love you now

and that’s bizarre - 
i’ve never loved you before,
i may only suddenly love you again,

and you will never love anything like me 
before or since
for your own good.’

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you
about how your hair smells like sea water 
and your nails are still wet with 
the wants of days so old 
I don’t know what your face looked like 
between those hours and now

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you
about how your eyes find places to rest 
upon the disgraces of me, 
about how the plains and valleys of my chest 
are not nice places to be 
and the chasms and cavities of my dreams 
swallow images of my past, 
faces, voices, 
even the bubbling magma of other 
people’s distrust of me

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you 
about where my hands go on evenings 
and what they do there, 
about why I haven’t written you a letter 
every night, like you wish you wanted,
not regretting them at all;
you’d regret them all, 
if only you could know what those letters would have said, 
if only I had written the bloody things 

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you
about how I don’t get why 
you know I’m a parasite 
and yet won’t ever peel me off your skin
and squeeze your fingernails into 
my silent, sinning self

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you 
about why you think my mewing 
means nothing 
and about wanting to possess but not wanting to be possessed 
and about how we run from questions 
we still want answers to 
and about longing 
but still staying short

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you 
about the landscape of my dreams 
and what two o’clock means 
and what hope looks like
after it notices that you’ve been staring it in the dark 
for an hour and a half
and it’s clearly lost hide-and-seek by now

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do

I want to talk to you
about wanting to talk to you

I want to talk to you

but we don’t know what to say
and we don’t know what to do.

1.
I get it. 
Denial is perhaps the only faith you know, 
if there existed a patron saint of indulgences 
you’d build a shrine of blades and bottles; 

I’ve come to tell you 
yes 
Buddha is more Dagwood than you can imagine 

there is more to be enjoyed 
than your ascetic surrender can fathom 

and you will never fathom it, 
sir, 
until you start sinking your teeth into it all.

2. 
You are indeed 
in the company of fools. 

I used to sing this song 
far more often and far earlier 
than you ever learnt the words 

so don’t think you’re being noble or clever 
to be in the dining room 
swaying to 
can I make you fall in love 
with me?
can I make you fall in love 
with me?
We’ll see

trust me, 
there are pages and princesses who 
wish I’d stop singing the song myself 

who can at least recall 
moments when I’ve hummed something different; 

maybe take your lyre 
somewhere else,

and your tall-tale-tellers too. 

3.
I may not know enough about 
the stars, and may not know 
enough chambermaids who can be arsed to hear me out, 
but I know this:

Durga can be my dance partner, 
she needn’t much wooing;

the wind can bear my breath as child, 
she needn’t much doing; 

whenever I’m aware that I’m star-things, 
I needn’t much glowing, 

and any word of good or bad, 
they needn’t much sowing, 

so all I need is my drink 
and my meal 
and a wink from something that fancies a drink and a meal of me, 

all I need is my pencil 
and a dead tree, 

all I need is 
what all I need of me, 

all I need is 
to know I’ve not been hurting anyone lately,

and if your faith is 
to hurt someone into loving you

then you’re no man 
cut out for any cloth I think is worthy.

If I see any harp of yours,
I’ll beat you silly with it

and string you up 
above stakes with their guts.