It’s snowing, and you move up ahead with a handful of stars and a look on your face so angelic yet mischievous. The landscape is white, as is the sky that seems to be reaching down to the ground. Running away from me and then coming back and moving in for the kill, you hit… Read more

The cold air and these samey days make me want to sleep, and yet there are words to be written and stories to be conjured that circle and swirl around my mind like the memory of your eyes. The streets are cold and the trees dead. Traffic is sparse but there are still too many… Read more

Beast heart. Packet of crisps and a smoke. A blink of the eyes and I come alive in your image. And then a field someplace. And then a road that cuts through the country that takes us to a forest where the animals play as if death were just some manmade invention and the end… Read more

The morning after the lifetime before. A beer piss that drags for hours leaving me weak at the knees and then the imaginary taste of your breast and I open my mouth like a baby bird in the nest but all I get is dead air and the rattle and hum of a boiler on… Read more

We watch the parade from under the bridge where we meet after work. We hold hands and forget where we are, but it’s okay, because this will last forever. I’ll make sure it does. Maybe one day I’ll paint it, or put it down into words. Don’t you worry. All things glow. All moments sing.… Read more

Residual memory. Residual touch. Long into the night, and long into your arms. There’s love on your chin, and sorrow on your lips, a sullen kinda beauty that dances between each letter of your name to the tips of my fingers. That name I say each day. That name that’s as natural to me as… Read more

The stink of inactivity turns me on like you wouldn’t believe. My own. Yours. Both at the same time. Everything ignites. Everything trembles. The thought of us spending days on end in bed together like the old people in Willy Wonka– it does more to me than all the porn in the world. Our filthy… Read more

The bus stop blues. The leaves on the trees that end up in my pocket. Will use them as bookmarks. Should’ve worn a scarf because the chill wind keeps creeping under my collar and freezing me. It grabs my balls and turns them into tiny marbles, or those stones you get on false beaches that… Read more

In the bottle, there’s God. In your belly, God also. Everything else is dust. Everything else just pales in comparison to the mystery of your kiss and the bliss of falling asleep beneath the stars not fearful of tomorrow. I’ve mentioned before how Bukowski said that drinking is like a suicide attempt you wake up… Read more