The Escape by Nick Sweeney

Aleksi knew he’d had enough of life in the sticks when his uncle Maks died in his own Viking funeral, an incident involving vodka, a firelighter and the teetering presence of firewood—damp, but not enough. The smell of burnt maple lingered around the lean-to and the kitchen garden for weeks. When Aleksi recalled it even years ahead, he was sure, it would be the smell he associated with his planning and preparation, with his transition to the next stage of his life.

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When the siren sounds
we have eight seconds
to tussle with our nighties
mother and daughter

Long Haul Driver
At first he was thrilled by the road
thinking it an adventure to roam
through cities and states.

A whisper deprived, not only
of mouth, lips, tongue –
it saw these things as distinct
and individually precious –
but even of subject-matter. It hung out
in sentence-fragments, among
the criminal underworld

my black & blue
& vapid heart


yr spit in my face
in a not sexy way

I did not kiss the lips
I kissed in my mind,
not even a small kiss
or a lightning smooch.
Time sped by and I
darted in and out
kissing nothing, only
kisses in my mind.

Lisbon, Portugal 2003. The delicatessen in Bairro Alto seemed more modern than the other shops in the neighbourhood. It looked more stylish, better kept. On one side of the glass counter was a wide selection of cured hams, cheeses and fresh olives, and on the other, an assortment of pastries, tarts and cakes. The wooden cabinets around the shop were filled with packets, tins, jars, bottles, and they all had handwritten labels like biscoitos, tomates, atum, vinho, and sitting on top of the counter was a basket full of fresh bread.

Go, come back home, turn back, you can’t be all alone, just slow down, think of how things used to be. Reminisce on those repressions of you and me, things weren’t terrible; there were some amusing times to be had. Remember the charming ancient cottage house, remember the nonchalant Catalan step, remember the cooling breeze drifting off the luminescent lake, remember the endless emerald lawn, remember the dogs smiling and playing with their daddy, remember the numinous touch of my hand on your face every trite night, remember us making love on polished French windows with grace. Enough. Quickly, swipe away ever building conservative shitstorms that constitute the past, shove away Elle memories from molesting you further yet again. Études brut? Carpe daimōn, clavier Vionysius.