wrote this with direction from jen crawford / check it out:


you were sorta late one day & now every day. my

idle dream of holiday houses & beaches & eastern

seaboard romance becoming this bucolic nightmare.

you are the lastest person on earth at night. every

night. i prise up the floorboards. bored. three possums

have made a home there. they stare in orange.


muck soaked underlay; a quorum of ants

& glittered motion, several sensations

while i swing a ladder. there seems some tension

round the edge of sight as if that ever

meant the world to you. screw intuition,

just one step & then a darker few more.

the flaring marbles, the un-crying eyes

gather like smokers glancing aimlessly;

concealing purpose. they mill around, here

in the under-house & scrutinise piles

upon haystacks of mail. i fall silent.


a knocking at the door on high fashioning a

whirlpool of unease (most houses love a door front &

back seaside living though it’s leaving the need of doors

open as a question (time a ruptured semaphoric system too

something like salt in the air & (what is the sound of you?

you standing near the back door peering tightly over

a curtain pirouetting then with an absent stare to the grass

memory of you is like windchimes / don’t check that

digital display you know you’re unexpected every

instant (the whirlpool the scourge of literate marsupials

circling a cloistering weave (the vertical hole one shaft

of light & such a distance this desperately simple door

to freedom (imagine you a southern cop bent to the core

& me like someone urging: kick in the door / kick in the door


thumbs down oh common stick-insect

you’re nothing great to see,

just olive green, three inches long…

boring. & all agree.

the titan see – it rules these parts –

dwarfs most common objects.

books, ipods, & mobile-phones…ha

cringe all lesser insects!

(‘makes no sense, your queer digressions’

like, kinda what you’d say

before we met & before this time,

this night, this holiday)

but now the bugs + loamy soil

nothing if not a crux;

one forces you to look to ground

(ph a state of flux?)


no reason for the scared flash of light issuing

no reason for your drunken arrival no reason

for any rescue attempt / i risk your name also

know you hear it / but the lastest thing i’m seeing

it’s your billow of skirts & a ladder’s withdrawal /

hammers are everywhere these days… nails dependable

sturdy & right there & with a few taps (squeaks) i am

semi-alone under floor / my new companions / they

no longer menace me at least… are now sympathetic

to the plight / a couple of AA batteries that unites us

& so naturally, i read / the possums are helpful

bringing forth what i need / it makes sense now that

every letter is addressed to you & quite fine / ‘..love

you come rain, hail or shine…’ for example, or et cetera /

my friends & i share knowing, orange looks

for an improbable eternity