Work in progress – Lobotomy


An ice pick through an eye, while barbaric,
is admittedly a rather elegant solution.

I can’t even begin to imagine
what series of little feats
of human ingenuity lead to such a brilliant
(and effective) idea that poking one’s eye
until you reach their brain, and then
mushing said brain around a bit,
stirring it,
like some fucking dry martini,
would do any good.

If you were ever taught
that everything happens for a reason –
Come on now, forget it. Ain’t how it’s done
around here. Your gods
are incompetent pretentious
little assholes
just like you and I.

But hey: some of the most beautiful things in life
are happy accidents. Sound familiar?
Of course it does. Folksy wisdom is a limited resource.



May poetry 2 – Archaeology


O Lucille…
Her fossils were never enough to fuel a starship
But they were pretty,
Polished and well-kept,
And almost complete,
Except for the tusks.

It’s been widely theorized –
We believed –
That the tusks had been removed after
Her death as a show of respect,
Perhaps an ancient human ritual
Signifying that
Lucille’s parts would live on as intricate decorations in human houses


Far, far, far away

From her rancid decomposing corpse.

We are dreamers.

February poetry 3 – Mars One

Mars One

They are prettier now that they are dead,
Now that we can no longer pinpoint why
Exactly she was a huge asshole and
Whether he ever drank too much. We still
Hear their consolations: this too shall pass.

And we’ll never join them in their frosted
Star-shine, no matter how hard we pretend
That killing them off in the same way and
Arranging their corpses with gusto will
Ensure we’ll meet again. How do you do?

Solitude is for social animals
Like you and me. Is that what hell is like
If you were to believe in it? Is hell
A good place? Is it an up-and-coming
Neighbourhood with hip cafes and antique

Shops and very low crime rate and only
Well-integrated, soft-spoken, wealthy
(But not in an intimidating way)
Immigrants peppered thinly over the
Smiling, bright, pink-cheeked faces? You betcha!

They are prettier now that they are dead,
And so we’ll be as well, one day, after
A sufficient amount of time passes
And no one remembers how we pillaged
This hostile, stinky, dusty and surely
Uninhabitable patch of dirt.

February poetry 2 – What Surprises You

What Surprises You

Many things can be said of elephants.
Memory, tusks, trunk.
Burial rituals, size.

Even if you managed to saw off
Her head, survived your
Attempt to wear it,
Survived the revenge of her family,
Well, maybe then you could realize
That you’ve finally outdone yourself.
You stood out.
Just enough to blend in.