The Agonist Journal


Potatoes also have eyes
but we are so greedy
strange things will happen here


The Book of Longing

the shrouded taint of shadow memories
               saturated whispers
her beetle-green semi-iridescence
blackening like a discarded banana-skin
               You only get one chance
               You were never really here

I should have known
so and now I must find the ruined place framing
haunting prose hunting
               spice and sweets
splicing the muscular if

residual swerve of honeyed grief
curved and carved seething cinnamon-vanilla
flakes of memory chipping away and chipping away
like wood shavings

the sense of something unfinished
tick tock
tick tock

from where I stand it’s clear to me
moonbone severance
the purplepink greyblacks

honouring the quivering signature
of your dark edged mantra
waiting and wanting

just a minute
    the cling
    the scrape
last stop—eternity




I still crave it every day but it’s killing me

              the silent half-formed slipslide

              this poisoned vine

              these whisper-bone fragments



              drowning incandescent fortnights

but the silksigh room is still empty

              like seeing a ghost.