Your mouth is ornamental
when you don’t use it for kissing.
Your time came and went already. The rest
of your life is going to be a repetition
of emptiness, occasional bright moments
here and there
reminding that you’re dead.
It gets phenomenally loud
when you’re silent.
This world’s epiphanies have nothing on me.
Anyone that talks about revolutions and means it is an idiot.
When I can’t write anymore I’ll commit suicide without a second thought.
If your voice was a room
I’d lock myself in.
My gods listen to me reverently;
every night they insert cables into my veins
and listen to my bloodstream—
I hang by the ceiling and they thrust electricity
through my eyes, ears, teeth
my blood laughs
my blood sings—
So far all my prophecies have come true.
I’m not afraid of winning.
People like you don’t understand love.
You only understand writing.
People like you don’t understand writing.
You know how to make love but
you don’t know how to fuck,
and I’d rather be with someone
that isn’t whole.
People that can’t get ugly bore me.
I always read
in your poems
It took me the better part of a decade
to figure out you’re my father and not my god.
I prefer it this way. I love you more for it.
I also don’t regret that you can’t read English.
A lifetime of work, cigarettes and love for
things that swim deeper.
London, this exotic animal
zesting its skin
full of thaumaturges & anger
one helter-skelter pilotage to the stratosphere
or a palmful of hot plasticine.
I choose big cities because
it’s simpler to get lost in them.
I will lie to you consistently
and without remorse.
Every religion does.
Our morning bodies.
Spoils of war.
There’s a drumbeat in my
& a naval fleet in the
I have many convictions
and all of them are nautical.
I drive fast and recklessly
the GPS screaming passages off the Dictionary of the Khazars
it’s mighty fun
not knowing who you might kill next.
Soon you and I
we’re sitting down
inside a poem