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find myself breathless in a Brooklyn tranny bar
    stunned by a woman who is kissing me like I am you.

Morning after opening night
    So that was it. And it is done,
    and now the artist can move on.
    Behind him, what he has achieved
    is slouching close. Morose, aggrieved.
     
    Most days he can’t abide the work,
    it spits from every seat.
    Most nights, it sends him half berserk
    and turns his flesh to meat.
     
    A first night. A public showing,
    a winning smile. A finished poem.
    Applying perfume to the skin
    of all the mess that lives within.
     
    Ideas are such perfect things.
    But soon as they’re made real
    they’re cringing, clunky, turgid things,
    so difficult to wield.
     
    That’s what keeps him trying though;
    he’ll stare till he’s half blind.
    It’s the search that will define him,        
    not the thing he’s trying to find.
     
    Seeking out a secret in
    the light, the rain, the traffic.
    A thing that makes him less alone.
    Some sudden, brutal magic;
     
    an angel in the takeaway
    who floods his veins with sun.
    The sentences that strangers say.
    A child having fun.
     
    Daylight on a dozing man.
    A damp patch on the ceiling.
    Anything can shake his hands
    and flood his soul with feeling.
     
    And it’s worth all the agony,
    the wanting to be more
    for that fickle ecstasy
    when he knows what he’s for.
     
    That burning punch from paradise
    eternal in the moment.
    When it’s good it’s very good,
    the rest is all atonement.

Down the pub
    It was something about the shape of his face
    the size of him. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
     
    I just wanted him to know without me saying
    that I needed him to put me in my place.
     
    We were joking, all together, shooting pool.
    I was standing, legs apart, smoking fags and swearing.
     
    Beside me, with their slender waists and shipwreck eyes
    the girls were dancing, and I was dying
     
    to be like them; until one put her breasts
    against my body and my feelings changed.

The point
    The days, the days they break to fade.
    What fills them I’ll forget.
    Every touch and smell and taste.
    This sun, about to set
     
    can never last. It breaks my heart.
    Each joy feels like a threat:
    Although there’s beauty everywhere,
    its shadow is regret.
     
    Still, something in the coming dusk
    whispers not to fret.
    Don’t matter that we’ll lose today.
    It’s not tomorrow yet.

Penance
    What you don’t know is that
    I’ve written this poem a hundred times,
    scribbled it over countless takeaway menus and flyers for shit raves
    in the only pen I could ever find,
    which was always a miniature turquoise rollerball.
     
    I’ve found scraps of it in my pockets
    and set fire to it on fifteen different windowsills.
    And watched the wind catch the ashes
    and each time blow them back in my face.
     
    I write it, and imagine giving it to you,
    and I get so scared that you will shake your head
    and tell me you can’t trust a word I say
    that I screw it up really small
    and wedge it down the back of the bus seats
    with the chicken bones.

Man down
    Let it be known: no man is entirely alone
    No man is a man all through.
    I’ve seen you. Shivering. Fleeting weakness.
    Cold rain scuffing its feet on the beaches.
    Young human. You. All feeling, flesh.
    Brine eyes. Man, but human first.
    Stand up. Tall and strong and curved.
    Your body makes my body hurt.
    A godkid. Perfect. Gloss and dirt.
     
    None of it’s real, we are made manifest
    By the hearts that bang hard on the bars of our chests –
    Let them out.
    But we can’t though. Too much to lose.
    You’ve got to keep face, keep pace. Keep cool.
    And what do I know? You’re the man here.
    I’ve got to stop telling you things.
    You’ll give when you’re ready.
    I’ve got to stop wanting.
    Your mind’s made up.
    I’ve got to stop pushing.
    You’re trying to keep steady.
     
    No man’s too man to hear things.
    No tears no tantrums. Resorting to type. So handsome.
    No woman’s too woman to take it all in.
    Quietly