Wednesday, 9 May 2012


Be as ghosts to one another.

It’s winter officially. This is ghost season.

There’s no place to fuck without dying from the cold.

The fish are infected with ice and sleeping in the pond. They dream of human extinction.

All these sounds I make instead of words rile you.

It isn’t a joke, you say. Then you laugh.

You put your finger in my mouth and we’re frozen together.

We'll be married until the robins and the thrushes stop dying.


  1. Brrr! I feel almost young again reading this.

  2. In a good way, I hope.

    I'm more at ease with myself in the cold, more childish.

  3. It is warmer inside the secret warmth of the cold of this poem than it is in the mouth of the poet that has thawed enough to say these lovely things. The lovely warm dreams of the fish... Surely they must be tropical. Clown fish perhaps -- one can hear them laughing gently as they dream. Yes, now you mention it winter has just arrived here too.