Friday, July 29, 2011

face fun

a horrible place to be

hard poems (II)


that water is cold
but it does not refuse to touch you
your skin is astonished
but it remains
there is something pure
almost a remedy
it turns you red
it turns you blue
and your blood stampedes in confusion

something like a snake bite
a needle of the sun
it hurts me, baby
just a little
just a little bit

S. Sparling

hard poems (I)


cracked angel she is the bitch in heat
with the weather crying blood mercy
she smells of a million tear drops
she smells of the sea
and the salt giveth and taketh
and the water drowns and drowns
but we can hold her eternal
strapped down by leather belts
tied to chair legs and the kitchen sink
these are the old ways
the forgotten ways
a ritual of blue bruises that sing
and the dog that croaks to the ceiling
this is how saints are made

and what of a star's sex?
it is burning and burning
always dying
burning and burning
a million years ago
when you feel her heat
see her light
she's already gone

S. Sparling


Labour (I)

copper like a drip of a grecian spear
on fire, the womanly scripture
voice of a thousand early birds
she is looking at you
expectant of the future
with no eyes but the eyes for you
and no lips
but the ones that posses a hunger
to never be alone

s. sparling

Labour (II)

amazon of the sea you have neutralized me
I am a conquering hero of the tomb
threw cat gut and whirlpools out to feed
like an eternity I am a password

so I am a saint.

god of so many.

so I can heal you
with my hands...

it's been light out here for days now
there does not seem to be a sun
just green and the colour
to haunt all lives

s. sparling


cruel tales

animal haus


music to make you dream

Monday, July 25, 2011


there in the neptune of the sky

a thousand women circle with their hands in each other's
and together, as one, they squat and urinate on the earth
there, where the equality of a thousand men prepare themselves
and each shit into a copper plate
offering a burning sacrifice to the heavens
saying: hey, we are feelings
we are food for the gods
hunting for the sweet eggs
becoming mirrors in that great green grasping silence

that was the age of anguish
where the forlorn philosopher fed himself a rail
it was only the flicker of thirsty yellow lights that called to him
and bathed him in their mellow arm
so sleep came into the caves of thought
furnishing all with a single scarlet mask of death

it was for the fingers
a separate love for each digit that wandered alone
in between the clefts of flesh
digging for water
or whatever else

it was for the fingers
swatting at black flies who are bloated on death
the only natural death left in this
the age of passwords
speak me a shibboleth

they left for me two red pennies of unlucky virtue
and the skeleton of a sparrow not yet dry
but moist with the limitless nutrition of angels
it is june and it has been raining for days
my dog looks up to me from between her regret
I feed myself a rail and continue

s. sparling

bad dreams

Sunday, July 17, 2011

*heavy piano noises*

been stuck in my head all day

Friday, July 8, 2011