clear my mind of you and stumble at your thought when i notice that the waters breeze doesn’t affect me as it used to, there’s no more signs in the leaves and no sun warming the waters, it’s darkness and winter and miles I cannot see. only miles, and miles that i cannot see.
j’ aime les pengouins
and my idea of their
walks down warm
beaches or the moon
if the moon would do
and j’aime you down
a muddy road and
sandals on your shoes
j’ aime tea spoons right
after they dipped
their bodies in my
foreign land and
j’aime les baleines
because they’re half as
big as I am when I
shine in those
ray bans you wear
on your nose j’aime
the color of your
freckle underneath
your hair and j’aime
the voice of reason
when passion
decides to hear
j’aime you my
aime my subtle fly
through salt
cathedrals
J’aime nonsense and
your touch especially
the smell of
wax in a layered
room j’aime mon
amour mon
aime j’aime you
what else am I to
do
you threaten a break
underneath my heavy feet,
a pit of
sorrow in the
once golden chalice
we were dancing through,
well im sorry darling
there is no
error of
composition
in this
cup I cling
to
anticipating the worst,
for the visit
into the killing
machine.
they were all killed
children, and women
and fathers, grandfathers
uncles, aunts, mothers.
and when i told
you i was
curious, to
see, you looked
at me with a
blank stare,
and with a serious
tone replied
that we will go
tomorrow.
we will take a stroll
down the erased
paths of memory,
we will visit
that ancient history;
ancient only
to us.
death is light
and contemplative
of its
destruction
a slow fire
wild as a
giselle
in her flight
her weakness is
precisely the
broadness she
wishes to
claim for her
own, her
greed at
absorption of
ever-more
a slow fire
until the
animal awakes
as endings
approach
you are
sililoquy in
tears,
you are
tongue of
words,
you are
heart of
hope,
you are
la toupie
of my edges
i spin you because you
deserve
to be spun
there sits a dark passenger
in the corner of thoughts,
he’s the man in the black suit
with the hat covering his
eyes, it doesn’t matter how
you imagine it, as long as you
see he’s wearing the hat, he’s
sitting in the back corner of
a speeding train and he’s
the collector of
echoes,
moments which get
louder with each lunge of
wheel on metal
louder lou d e r LOUDER
as the image in the background
of a painting screaming for
attention, until it perspectively
grows, approaches, gets nearer,
and his face comes right
up to yours, he stares you
in the eyes until you realize
you don’t even see him,
or recognize the shape of
the face, can’t recognize
the person, the dark passenger
revealed,
the stranger, stranger like
a crow bite
that got infected on your
skin, and recollection of
the spoiled underneath
unimaginable to you
this thread is
the mantlepiece
of the
hold we have
on each other,
this thread,
the cornerstone
of
enigmas,
this thread,
the unspoken
thought.
my brother broke his arm
when he was nine. he fell
off monkey-bars and wore
a blue cast for the longest
time. that is the first time
i learnt what jealousy felt
like - but it was an innocent
jealousy, an envy for something
other. it also seemed like all
the kids were getting casts on
their arms or legs, and i
always wished it would
happen to me. but no,
my bones have always been
thick and my body has always
been strong - my mind
on the other hand could
have worn a cast while
it was growing up, maybe then
the proper structure would
have emerged as a final
product. instead, i am left
with bits of here and bits of
there
being mixed together in
a witches pot, and i never
really know what comes
next.
when a girl loves a boy
overseas
hes the courage she clings to
and the dead sea scrolls
mention some thing or
other about proper
virtue but even if
the sea were alive the
way it is to them, the
scrolls would still be
named the dead sea
scrolls as their
undying love is simply named
love
i never thought the smell of cigarettes would be as
comforting as they are when he smokes them
hand hidden behind his back as if the smell
would not reach our noses when he is
in the middle of a closed room or even with
open windows or doors to the balcony
with a view on the homeland which we so
dearly were kept away from because of an
ancient promise for a new and better place
freed from the grasp of an idea of equal
wellfare or some-thing or other which is
better not to speak about
and it is interesting to sit here in an apartment
building amongst one thousand other
apartment buildings listening to him
speak about democracy and the way he
was sent to jail because he fought for it
so he could have his own job, so he could
make his own money, so he could live in his own
place, while all the while his ways are so
indebted to the history that he could
not even see the difference between
two ideas since he lives them simultaneously -
i fill the blanks with the things he forgot to mention
after the war and its aftermath, what
is remembered are the smells
not the ideas, the ways, not the ideas,
the people, not the ideas, so
i eat my breakfast
as i ate it when i was a child and i listen
to him speak with his cigarette behind his
back, listen to his voice, and try to keep it in my head
for the moments he will no longer be close
i try to remember the smile and
the wrinkles and the way he shaves his beard
in the morning with the background
radio installed in the shower
playing an old Tom Jones song he says he
used to dance to when he was fifteen
and i savour every moment of
home that i feel since the last time i visited
him in this land
her colors shone,
the darkest
hues,
the ring of
fire
beyond its
scope
and the
sweetness
fell into the
giants mouth,
the one
with the
power
to chew
us out
i don’t live in my images, i don’t live
in them at all. i don’t live what i
speak, i don’t live at all. i don’t
i don’t i don’t and i don’t know
the clasp of your hand is tight
like a note crumpled in your
backpack i don’t live in these
images i don’t know i don’t
know i don’t know what they
want like fire and rain and thunder
that know what i don’t
i don’t i don’t the fingers cross
at the secret and i don’t i don’t
want this i don’t live here they
live here all that’s there lives here
i don’t
i don’t.
genesis of a new heart - the fundamental titter tatter
of the body but it stills you and exhibits its truth as soon
as you lock your eyes the darkness enfolds the mind and
the senses are within whoever touched you touches you still
all at once while having none at all the next step bites your neck
imaginings of an everlasting future grapple on the floor
and the confidence of the suckling baby at your breast
feeds and there is nowhere to find anything
you were searching for; the end is in the moment
every moment the end is winning the race as it was
supposed to as the crows were swinging by the park the darkness
has always been and will always be
because the tribe lost the war to the murderers and
the eaters of flesh and of women and of the men with envy and the
holders of love out of strength
collected dust arranged
particle after particle in
a line in muggy waters in
rays of light in golden
embraces in stumbled
falls in creative breaths in
winged interpretations in the
sorrow between the sheets in
the curve and the bend and
in the swift clearance of
a jukebox from the corner
store the one children
played with because the
money didn’t matter the
dust settled in the crease
in the narrow path and in
the grey scaled entrance
to the trip ahead by means
of wings in the sky in the
air in the gas and the
clouds in the atmosphere in
the winter in the summer
spring fall the dust settled
in the disappearance of present in
the canopy of thought in the
wheel chair of ambition
in the push for novelty,
the dust settled .