where are my bones.

I’m in the difficult stages of getting-over

straddling lighting and trying to be a good human

If I was as cursed as a dog I’d have an excuse

for not being able to talk properly

my marrows sucked &

I’ve stuck my poetic bones in the oven.

I know I have a leg up on the competition

straddled & hooked around a meaning

I’m using my whole body

to figure this one out.

Come on come on come one inspiration

I can’t just show up to work like this

I am making a book with pages for feathers

The process of getting it together

involves an impossible sort of string like a elf’s beard

I can’t write this poem so I’m going

to braid my hairs.


I’m unable to perform

this right either

Although I am at the brimming part of my thinking

Where I combust at the thought of you.

No poof. No poof.


Most of the dead were young women

Says the radio

Crumpled to death in stamped.