we have eaten them all

circling they fly across september
blood red council of crows
hand in hand we lie stubble scraping
watching the portents
formation mirroring our own outstretched arms
touching the horizon gathering the harvest
annunciations of plenty
we declare the heavens open for business
we declare the heavens open for feasting
between the trees beneath the crows
we plight our troth we hold our tongues
there are no words left
we have eaten them all

The Dead Start Fires

I went on a three day vodka bender.
And when I awoke
God spoke to me,
Through the medium of a kettle,
Through the medium of the classified football results.
And this is what he said:

"You are dead my son,
You just haven’t stopped moving yet.
You are dead my son,
But here’s the clever part:
No more hunger, no more pain,
No more broken hearts.
Just believe in me and you will be saved,
Just believe and all your dreams will come true.
Whatever you want, whenever you want,
With whomsoever you desire.
You can do what the hell you want.
Because the dead start fires my son,
Yes the dead start fires."
And so I did.

I fired them up,
I fired them down,
Ran naked through the smouldering town,
Ran naked through the smouldering streets,
Where the lost and the lonely and the lovers meet.
Where the lunatics and the girls turn tricks.

Stole from children, stole from thieves,
Stole hopes and fears and tears and griefs.

Burned innocence and indolence,
Burned arrogance and ignorance.

Screwed you slowly, screwed in haste,
Screwed the whore in the gutter
With her skirt around her waist.
Crying "love you long time, nothing sweeter,
Lick my clit and call me Rita."
And so I did.

Because the dead will mess with your head my friend,
Yes the dead will mess with your head.

The dead will whisper in your ear,
And tell you arcane secrets.

The dead will lurk behind you at the dinner table,
Passing the port the wrong way.

The dead know where your heart is hidden,
But refuse to tell on pain of life.

The dead will watch your happiness slide into dust,
And offer no crumb of comfort.

The dead say:
“Thou shalt not fall in love so easily.”

The dead say:
“They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.”

But the dead have the consolation
Of the quiet and the flames.
Because the dead play games, my love,
Yes the dead play games.

seventeen years

there was a time when i would have given you anything given up anything surrendered my life to you surrendered my life for you but seventeen years is a long time long time stroking her neck running my fingers through her hair beyond comprehension willfully misunderstanding days i wished would last forever nights strung out with pills and whiskey and the laughter the laughter electric glances between us but now the looks are fading tracing lines down the small of her back razor blades cuts of love and pain oozing through dull consciousness some idiot osmosis these celebrations leave their marks on a man and a woman counts the days waiting for her bright lover to return and i dimly feel that desire building up now beneath my tongue she comes to me she comes to me and all is forgotten all buried like water beneath the rush of seventeen years

My Cocaine Mistress

You were huddled round the fire on the beach,
Shepherding the flames for the evening breeze.
Swapping Special Brew and spliffs with your mates:
Laughing stories of boys and toys,
Cocks and dildos.
Wrapped in a duffle coat of former days,
You flicked a curl back from your ear:
Unselfconscious, sweet, distracted, mischief on your mind;
You smiled not at me, but for me.
And I fell in love with you that night,
That very moment, on that beach,
I fell in love with you;
My cocaine mistress.

You were curled up on the sofa like a panther,
A panther with a roll-up and a glass of cheap red wine.
Grinning at the old war stories:
Tall tales of men and motors,
Parties and regret.
Wrapped in a dream of former days,
You spoke as secret lovers do:
Unselfconscious, absent, perfect, music in your eyes;
You talked not to me, but for me.
And I fell in love with you that night,
That very moment, on that sofa,
I fell in love with you;
My cocaine mistress.

You were crying on a corner in the rain,
Crying for your dead youth and the years that had been lost
At the loving hands of families and friends:
Relations of the blood and the blade,
Instruments and cigarettes.
Wrapped in a dislocation of former days,
Your tears washing away the innocence:
Unselfconscious, squalid, human, sorrow on your breath;
You kissed me. You kissed me.
And I fell in love with you that night,
That very moment, in that rain,
I fell in love with you;
My cocaine mistress.

You are stretched out on the bedsheet like a doll,
Arms akimbo, damaged lady porcelain.
Tracing the journeys your body has taken:
Broken maps of pain and lust,
Addictions and despair.
Wrapped in a skin of former days,
White powder fills the furrows of your flesh.
Unselfconscious, ephemeral, eternal, a perfume on your sweat,
Purging me of all my guilt.
And I fall in love with you this night,
This very moment, every moment,
I fall in love with you again;
My cocaine mistress.

crawl into my grave and turn the key

i have done all i can to forget you but the memory still creeps across my skin i have done all i can to hide from you but the light still burns my eyes i have done all i can to bury the past in a box carved out of feigned indifference but still you crawl into my grave and break the seal crawl into my grave and pick the lock crawl into my grave and turn the key

The Oslo Girls

The Oslo girls paint by numbers.
The Oslo girls supplement their income through bookkeeping and prostitution.
The Oslo girls weep for the dead of Juarez.

The Oslo girls invented baseball.
The Oslo girls called for you while you were out.
The Oslo girls like boys with toys.

The Oslo girls are inside the tent pissing out.
The Oslo girls have come for your children.
The Oslo girls favour the brave.

The Oslo girls are outside the tent pissing in.
The Oslo girls shot JFK.
The Oslo girls asked questions later.

The Oslo girls shall look on Helen's face in hell.
The Oslo girls have started so they'll finish.
The Oslo girls plagiarise, plagiarise, plagiarise.

The Oslo girls are training men. Hallelujah.
The Oslo girls will free your mind and your ass will follow.
The Oslo girls give as good as they get.

The Oslo girls are God's gift to women.
The Oslo girls are God's gift to women?
The Oslo girls are God's gift to women.

The Oslo girls know where you live.
The Oslo girls scream when they wanna go faster.
The Oslo girls are on the side of the angels. But the Devil is their best friend.

The Oslo girls do not break eggs to make an omelette.
The Oslo girls are slippery when wet.
The Oslo girls had a farm. Ee-i-ee-i-o.

The Oslo girls got married in a fever.
The Oslo girls would like to meet your mother.
The Oslo girls threw the baby out with the bath water.

The Oslo girls licked the platter clean.
The Oslo girls built Rome in a day.
The Oslo girls told God to do it.

The Oslo girls got drunk on dark wine.
The Oslo girls gather no moss.
The Oslo girls went down to the river to pray.

The Oslo girls like it hot.
The Oslo girls are only slightly bent.
The Oslo girls love you. Very, very much. They just don't have the words.

The Mother of Mexican Poetry

I was born in a shack in Sonora.
I was born in a bungalow in Tel Aviv.
I was born in a country house in the Yorkshire Dales.
The details are not recorded,
Because the details are the Devil's secret.

My mother died screaming in child-birth.
My mother turned to prostitution and crack cocaine.
My mother rode with the hunt and the hound.
The details are ill-defined,
Because the details are the Devil's province.

My father raised a hard-eyed child.
My father disappeared in 1968.
My father blew his brains out one Christmas Eve.
The details are transitory,
Because the details are the Devil’s joke.

And three times I was martyred:
In the garden at Gethsemane,
On the streets of Alexandria,
In the cold of Salem meeting-house;
For I am the mother of Mexican poetry,
The daughter of an institutional revolution,
The sister of the unnamed dead.

For Roberto Bolaño