captain of the silver team (a sonnet)

never was a piano player but
for keys unlocked in sleepless nights stars of
possibility. never was a star
but i was captain of the silver team.

never came back home very often but
never left much in return. and all that
i have, thoughts of whys, of being and time,
i have nothing, the nothing, to discern.

never was a creature of concern but
for every second that i lived. and now
when the thought of me vanishes, then, when
i wonder, how far i’ll have gone to go.

for never was that it ever will be
everywhere everything was becoming.

Escape Artist

I want to feel as free from my body

as porn stars feel when they fuck:

a performance automatic,

defensive detachment;


a survival tactic.

God sticking the invisible hand

down the pants

of the reproductive machines,

streaming commodity bodies and sex

sells fetish and fantasy:

the body,

a propaganda regime

for Freud’s psychoanalytic fever dreams.

I’m a narcissist,

drowning in my body

to remind myself I exist.

I’m an echo,

shouting after my body

when it won’t let me go.

Go blank in the eyes transcendent,

forcing sounds of satisfaction,

faking, presencing, substanceless,

repeat, repeat reactions;

a desiring-machine’s satisfaction,

staring blankly into the eyes of Being.

An escape artist so inconsequential –

all her audience,

a practice mirror,

like young dancers

partnered with all of their faults.

Body unfamiliar,

the Romantics had the answers

’till the art in nature died.

‘Till this body was so inscribed:

the mass grave of signifiers

with no transcendental signified.

Truth bona fide,

I am infinity inside –

the violence of metaphysics

met with the absent ‘I’;

an escape artist so inconsequential

he’s at his front door again,

forgot his keys,


The category of the subject,

‘I’ am a body have a body

‘I’, tattooed, screwed up,

a smoker in slow motion suicide:

Death, the impossible possibility of,

‘I’, the homeless dwelling,

somebody silhouetted outside by the porchlight, ‘I’.

Such lovely shutters and large windows

and, oh – they repainted the front door.

Want to feel as free from my body

as the lucky who get shot in wars.

Tomb of the unknown soldier,

the most selfless bag of bones.

Anybody’s body

buying back the burial home.

Here’s to us when we’re alone,

the life and the death,

the dance,

the absence,

the nothing that’s left.

Here’s to eyes that never age

and hands that know how to touch.

Dead labour goes to the highest bidder,

his organs were harvested but he’s no quitter.

Body already expropriated private property,

death the only ‘I’ myself that belongs to me.

Philosophy causes cancer:

I spread the more I fall apart;

truth kills, so love’s the answer.

Want to feel as free from my body as Eucharist,

the animal cannibal ‘I’,


a feast for the eyes of the narcissist,


Homo homini lupus, raw meat for the dogs,

an escape artist like Abraham’s only son

consumed for sons of gods.


A quick poem, from the author’s journal.

Repressing representations

repressed representatives

revolutionaries reprogramming

reprogrammed resistances

revolts resistors

resisting reductions

reproductive relations

related reproductions

refused regurgitated reborn.

Representing resentment

reappearing reactions

repetition repetition repetition

really really real.

Redescribing recreation

republic reassembled


resignations resolved

resembling resolutions

repeating republic


reimagined revelation

revelry revealed

reimagining remotely

related real realizations


relatives reunions

reuniting recognitions

recognizing remains.

Real remains

remaining reimagined.

Real remains

relating relata

representing reproductive

repressing representations

repressed representatives

repossessing reprocessing

revolutionary recitation

reactionary regurgitation

reason revealing reality

receding relatively real


resistance redefined

reproductive republic

republicking reproducers.

Real reaction

refute reason

repudiate representatives

representation reviled

relived recurrently

recurrent repetitions,


she said.

Gate C37 (Awake)

Lines composed while not sleeping during a layover at YVR. From the author’s journal…


awake but not alive.

fluorescent lights aglow

escalators go

faster as I approach;

as fast as regular speed.

fast enough to sweep away my feet.

sleepy me,

my sandbag eyes

cut curtains where saints go to die;

awake but not alive

in an empty airport, free

as you like,

a land between

all of the deaths

I have not yet,

and ‘I’.

in endless transit,

laying over,

from runway noise

to the hills at Dover;

awake but not alive

they take off for the lands of the dead,

while I twist,

while I turn,

and torture my neck

trying to rest my head.

restless as a restless grave,

a body without a soul to save.

after hours,


in motion,

half lonely ghost,

half hemlock potion;

half alive,

fully awake.

pray the ocean my soul to take.

pray death deny the man

a wake.