2 bedroom flood to rent

palmfuls of time & with eyes containers of
seasons i realize i’m moving out, moving
in, same thing

the room that was me and me that was room
spaced out = legs outstretched amid all
that lives in drawers & on cards i collect of hotels we stayed in;
the floor: moments disjunctive, memories in situ

but my new flat has a view to the
future, a bed unslept in & a terrace perfect
for things that happen in the dark


–does it have a desk or a bathtub?
–it has
both, but why one or the other? –i’m this writer
i can’t write 
standing up  –sorry? –i’ll come over
and see it

                                                           sometimes i think i’ve thought
                                                           of every thought possible, until
                                                           next morning

and your promises for permanency,
a prerogative of property (or poetry), protruding like nipples
erect :
or any premises [     ] offering tenancy without a contract


on this body of yours i carved tattoos in languages
planetary, improbable i took off my rings & danced around every
moon meretricious of your mood


pale you painted me like
a vampire Dantès, unable to comprehend flight, trapped in
a cell (or an atom), statued on

murderer of families that couldn’t love you-   i


i, who copyrighted the night


i, that copyrighted your nights


i, of humble origins

homer’s beard i have, and the eyes? my eyes
aren’t a statue’s, white empty and fixed on
infinity yet; my eyes are here, they’re black full and upon


triumphing against every odd

planting fire
summoning winds

my tongue the satellite rebelled

leaving you
sputniked wild & orbitless


alcoholic agoraphobic
life’s dilettante
with a style of rocks for lips: unopened

you, the lamb among



but a space isn’t the space a studio a room inverted a moor
a bed

dead on a bed
dead on the seabed

was i dead would you
study me on the bed

draw me like one of your
fuck-up poets


all the reckless things: i do

sculpting on water
capturing storms in an envelope (addressed: to you)
somersaulting pentameter
carving fiction out
of these lives of us

reading borges on the bus


reading frank
by james kaplan i get distracted
at the mention of sinatra’s blazer
and ascot

& my hands drift into

inscribing trunks, and your body


            it’s a new habit i acquired
            getting drunk in the bathtub
            re-reading stanislavski with whisky
            metal on headphones, and the door
            carefully shut to the bed
            vibrating under your calls;

            always less you than decadent


how heavy will the steps be when we meet again
imagine the scene, one opposite the other,
the music that plays: like static, electric-
glance cinematic
and the earth so light it might turn over


            be in l
            anguage or

            april in

            with the body of bosphorus
            myrrhing up

            where darling is

            and your eyes:
            my gök dunyā


my new flat: is painted

            a blue more blue more

            that you don’t have to explain
            the sky;

            renting the sea

and i didn’t feel anything when she took me in just my
arms mellowing into fins, melting and i couldn’t touch


            an hour
            to guide you
            around Paradise

            or a 2 bedroom flood;

            on the steps
            begs the morning
            heat off my skin;
   and all your
            moving out, moving

Kandinsky - Painting with Three Spots

Kandinsky – Painting with Three Spots