Comrade we’re wading through the windowpane,
glass breaking in

slow motion as they throw us over,
the street below is subtitled “soldier”,
in between the air is our orders,

comrade. I got enlisted in this espionage
by my pinup ex-wife firing her breasts off
like a barrage of wedding corsages, you realize
to be a spy is to always be in disguise.

When the bomb’s peck rattles her door
she’ll think it’s me walking, wanting more,
I left her without a dollar or word,
my falling fingers have turned into birds.


It’s a cold war so you better get by on your frigid wits,
Be the kind to leave no evidence.
When my uncle enlisted, full of wishing and risk articulate
in a flight journal, his brother kept an album of aircraft which mimicked that list, the pilot, twenty seven and dead to those red Russians, flying a bat,
Bristol Bolingbroke, variant of the British Blenheim—
you will go blind at night, the snow, crossed gas lines
as he falls over you and his life like a chronicle in cursive
fuel tubes.His brother becoming subsequently better at throwing knives at the floor. The body having been a pilot light all its life. His apparition, that night,
forming in the kitchen,
do it over again, go back to the beginning,
his noise in a darkening alleyway.


Listen, I know your head’s red weather,
I’ve really just got hired,
Its all political, I’m going to retire,
I’ll stop taking girls to the movies,

I don’t know anything
Don’t throw me out there,
Ill float slow as an ambassador
In this lonely place, Stalingrad.
Comrade, comrade, comrade,
c’mon comrade!

We are your friends, You’ll never be alone again
Well c’mon, Well c’mon, Well c’mon, well c’mon
We are your friends, You’ll never be alone again
Well c’mon, Well c’mon, Well c’mon, well c’mon

You wake up and feel like your heater,
my friend, my agent, my lawyer:
binding your umbrella tight you move
and look like a hundred mice in a human costume.


Weightless in the wind’s witch on a winch above
“the Russian,” I’d been that neighbourhood cat
dodging traffic in this picturesque city’s
classified district with “the Russian’s” hot batch
of cold war rumbling an arm and a half’s
reach behind me in the film’s climactic end sequence.
I caught the rope, pulling the slack after, began to scale
this building as if the tables had
turned in interrogation, the bead of sweat returns
to the scalp’s rendezvous, and I hoped for a
billet out of frame before I realized my hair is
gelled this perfectly so as to simulate gravity,
and I’m straight, the camera is tipped on its side.

My last flic had me
a drug addict and I’m still a bit riddled, svelte
like a spy, but the truth is
my arms are thin enough to be beautiful women
and “the Russian” is actually a mean Brit I stole a
kiss from last minute. His moustache tickled.
the wind carrying his code phrase across
the building’s sheer drop I could walk off,
“you’re not the hottest bitch in Hollywood”.


It was a miracle the morning didn’t break without an
“I’m not falling, I’m not falling away,’
I liked the movie last night honey its funny that I’m not afraid yet.

The title of the week is women and their fucking fantasies.

I’m not the hero you don’t get to be
such a negotiator,

I’m not the only liar that you’ve ever fell backwards into.

This much,
this much is just a moment,

don’t say,
don’t say last night was just for my enjoyment.

I’m the one here that’s really falling.

Comrade,
comrade, do you mind

If I,
if I call you that
the last time we fall together, before I fall out.