Fire, Fire

The house was on fire.

It burned and it burned through the night. A prank, we thought, so we got out of bed and we trundled downstairs; sat in the living room, legs crossed. The flames came, and they were as real as the ego of smoke.


Fire could not kill us.

We mocked the inferno. We goaded it from the Hell spat. We belittled its inability to touch gold and flesh.

As the charring began; as the sofa and livingware melted around us, we



all at once?

a simpler life once we all were ashes.


Night Owl

            Because the Night

Are you a night owl or are you the early bird? What’s your most productive time of day? When do you do your best work?

The best work I do is at night.

Unfortunately, by that point, I’m fast asleep – so the moment all goes to waste.

I get a good night’s rest. Does that count? 

When I do stay awake, I get a burst of creative energy that lasts for a meagre five seconds before petering off into a read-in of Charles Bukowski or Edgar Allan Poe (not entirely truthful, I watched Legally Blonde last night, but there are similarities in which people find themselves, or others — behind bricked walls). I’m not a morning person. Mornings don’t exist. I get up and I do things that are vaguely related to the things I’ll be doing later in the day and night that are actually conducive to my future. The mornings I always forget, the nights I remember.


I thought,
and sat down –
that’s what you expect me to do?

my personal muse,
my cornucopia –
should I refuse you?

write down that,
write down this,
I don’t care what you need!

You’re a muse,
a projected image!

mountains, mountains, mountains.
oceans, oceans, oceans.
The stars glittered,
and fuck,
I wiped them out with an eraser –

how ugly!
how disproportional!
I prefer light pollution,
and dirty streets;
the frontier,

drowning out your noise,
your lizard tongue –
fantastical beasts, be damned!

You spout your importance,
like some kind of God –
but all you are, muse,
is a parched shrub,
dying in the fire.

another wasteful session

I never finish words

, but it’s cozy to know the words stick around like when you freeze fireflies in amber: same colour bulbs, faint discolouration and make-up, like, like, like, whispers that don’t come out as whispers but full-formed delicacies; people look at you, but they turn back to their articles about the smog in Paris that’s choking the Eiffel built-finished for the 1889 World Fair, the same year as the Great Seattle Fire in which gentle-clothed-things grew on-top and grew and grew walls painted yellow and green and pink and blue, wasted eyes, we’re all colour-blind: I drink all wines, and write    some     words.