“The land is furrowed deep with worry. The angsana trees are turning orange with pain.” This collection emerges, squeaking and poorly oiled, from this rubbish heap we have all piled up. It revels in the transfixing beauty of this last age of man. These poems have dwelt too close to the nuclear waste facility. These poems have traversed through fields of madness for grains of truth. These poems attempt to wring the last dregs out of language. Anything but Human grasps for a poetry beyond our collective exhaustion.

Fly Forgotten, as a Dream (II)

We wake up with fifth-generation antibiotics in our mouths. My skin is scaly with the pieties of the past. Everything we do now is terribly ill-advised. Just yesterday, you brought home a pack of sickly biscuits. They taste deeply of the amnesia we’ve grown to love and cherish. I chance upon an old photograph of people eating around a banquet table. There is a suckling pig with cherries in its eyes. I find another photo of almost the same scene, but the pig has my eyes. The rain beats on my window with great urgency. At night the bed is hot with the suspicion of meaning.