I shouldn’t speak
shouldn’t open the night cave
of my mouth
as you’d see all the times I
bit my tongue
bleeding black ruby stars
getting drunk on their bitter iron hearts
and I shouldn’t speak
of the universes I swallowed
their darkness rolling, roiling
under my tongue
hanging beneath my palate
as pillars of smoke and clouds of ash
I shouldn’t speak
and yet I’ll talk the destruction at you


a cosmos of word-shards
slivers of crescent moons falling
between fingers, spread
to comb through strands of thought
into neon tunnels, winding through
hyperspace, folding into first snow,
final breath of the universe, iridescent in their breathtaking creation and destruction, time running backwards through veins like liquid fire, all gone, all going into all cardinal directions and beyond, all present in the single grasp of a planet between two fingertips, exploding, imploding, spinning until coming to rest in


I cannot write the stories
most people would read
would want to understand
so I pile many of them up unfinished
yet referencing them all over the place
so they still exist, but only
to the ones who hold pieces
and have glimpsed enough of the key
to see my thin layer of universes
woven into the fabric
of this glowing web.

Shooting Stars

There are still fragments
of shooting stars buried in my back
from when I turned around
to face the waning Moon
asking it where it was going

and the star splinters still burn
under my skin
as I am surrounded by pale city nights
wrapping my arms around
the elusive true darkness
asking it to return

Heart of Night

The beating, pulsating heart of night
tempered in coldest fire
icy red quenched in blue, fading to black
and dusted in crystal-cut frost:
stars referring to themselves
by unanswered names
in a dance in solitudes, across the void
the pull of gravity, rippling waves
in the bejewelled darkness
moving, heaving with the beating heart
stretched taut in the window frame
between evening star and morning steel