I want to talk about the unspoken lines,
the pages ripped out of the book even before showing
the first draft to the first few initiates outside
the brain that conceived the perceptions noted
and burnt
but reconstructing the ashes would mean creating ink that stains
fingers and all the following pages
so there is silence
and white-out tape wound around a barbed tongue
securing all the omissions to prolonged oblivion
until one day it might dissolve
and words will scratch the itching blankness
leaving supposedly haphazard marks on paper
a palimpsest, in hindsight


And there are stories stuck
under your skin
wrapped around your spinal column
in tender, haunted tendrils
of nine-tailed jellyfish trailing
across your arms mystical words
uttered in underwater caves
between the clenched teeth
of stalagmite salamanders
and the stalactite eyes of the universe,
where fire mountain meets black hole
and permafrost seeps into your core,
making you part of a landscape
unmapped, unmoored, unshared
save for the fragment you manage to break off and carry out
hidden and warmed under your tongue.

Old Codes

Saturn’s rings and whispers in static,
carrying messages encoded in poetry:
past and present in colliding spaces
and small towns buried in desert sand
after ships took off and dragons took wing
following twinkling multiverse suns into
the familiar pull of the unknown

Snail Solipsism

Solipsistic snails dreaming of being
the dream of a walrus, a unicorn, maybe,
not knowing nobody knows
who exists, who doesn’t,
but knowing by tiny beating snail heart
there are trees under the snow of
the sunken city marble eaten away
by currents carrying stoic fish,
ignorant of questioning dreamers
and their unlayering of realities inside mathematically sequenced shells

The Tiny Sounds (Of A Glass Garden Breaking)

Making sense of sounds smaller
than the bones in your ear,
so tiny they get stuck like splinters
under the nails of your fingers planted
in the soil of forgotten dreams
where you try to grow new ideas
but now the sounds trickle down
the lanes between tendon and bone,
shivering across the back of your hand
and still you don’t know their source
and you start digging
and you fall through the roof
off a heart of glass
but land among fern and flowers
and the beating wings of hummingbirds
settle on your shoulders
and the sound disappears
into the shattered sky of your chest.


It’s too deep and too much
and the mountains too high and
too far away
to lick the salt off their cheeks
and contain it all between teeth and tongue
and in trying so there is no room left for words under the roof of your mouth
the rocks and fern sticking to the arching palate aching with the burden of summer and rain and all the movements of tall grass in the breeze and
the trails of stars escaping from your lips, your eyes, streaking forgotten glamour across cheeks fallen silent in the attempt to say it all and swallow the day
and the orbits of planets are fairy rings dancing in widened eyes, on the planes of retinas crowded with a million afterimages of exposure to a world so full every mind holds but a fragment
but you want to put together all the shards and drink the Milky Way from this ancient vessel of beauty

Snail Glyphs

The magic of snails silently weaving
their glyphs into the night:
patterns of the language unspoken
by the ones without ears
spell-ing out in their dizzying space
of ignoring dimensions and gravity
their marks of the seasons
in scented maps trailing across
windows and tiles and the moon
reflected in yesterday’s rain
speaking of movement and
the joy of sampling every flavour
in their small universe