two foxes playing at a train station at night

rotten creatures, full of pestilence and noise

run!

chase the last train away

the last human with it,

bring your nuisance here

your mischief, your trickery

sovereigns of the night

the earth is yours,

run circles round each other

leave tracks upon the floor,

for the day folk to find and wonder

the secrets of your tiny paws

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to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust, guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me, most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

october 29th

my body is a place of worship regularly desecrated, a basket of ripe fruit circled by the starving, a lamb in the woods smelled by the wolves, built to sacrifice to eat to devour until there is nothing left but bones lay me on the altar as abraham did to isaac tell me this is gods work that the knife you brought is heavy with the desires of your creator who is this to satisfy? is your blood hot as you pray would you look in my eyes, or at the sky when the moment arrives, who is to blame? my father, on earth my father, in heaven my lover, hands around my throat so he may control my life and death and play both neither answer my cries nor feed me when hungry but i must be grateful because they love me so much that they’ll punish my sins and correct my foolish mistakes as though they are an extension of their own as i am an extension of them grateful even in death for the...

my love

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