Court Rooms and Gentlemen Heavy boots scuffling down the sand path. Sulked shoulders in agony, all leading to the camp. The camp where they buried mercy. Hundred faces all flushed out of blood A thousand fingers bony and starved like soldiers left to rescue. The rescue that murdered mercy. The past in their unspoken memories, unhinging, clinging, drastically illustrious. Leaving no trace of dignity, they sat side by side in utter silence. The cold air circulating the wood cabinets and worn out desks, sliding through their skin traumatized the eventuality of sweaty respect. The present a faux pas, the present an ultimatum. Restless night, cradling moon and spotty twilight sky. Lovers promised to spend each other to exploit the art of caressing. They never made it to first phase. Knuckles in fists went up guts, and women lay bleeding weeping. The men embarrassed, the men no longer gentlemen. The short lived life of high expectations in unborn children seized. Tried and fried, the many lives of those cruel. The men, the women, the children in blood maroon.
Today the trial goes on and on, no one's faced up to brutalities humming alone. The badged monsters of yesterday, the orphans of today, the scare crows of tomorrow sipping wine and characterizing their false splendour while in trials lost time lies dispensed.
Honey Water Greed, creed, race, jump through gallop with pride. The beer belly exists for a reason. Storing up for the good days while facing grim town. Here is a toast to fresh memories and those stone cold. Soon, when the night rocks the block in my head will pop slowly releasing an aphrodisiac.
Ego satisfaction… in the fireplace. Is the glass half full or half empty? Neither or none I say! to catch the wagon down south. The gates of heaven, I never pictured so crowded. With clergyman and nurses ambulances and police. The taut accent, the loose chin, the glasses that sit only on the rim far below the bridge. A heaven full of bridges, willows and ducks... Quack quack! Quick, quick I must run away. Grim town and icy clouds it is, where it's neither or none. I only went far to come close. Snapshot gallery, on acqua del miele.
The Might of the Knight This door, opens from space into void. This key, turns a lock from outside in. This room, rattles me to where I hadn't been. This hill, steep, green bearded transforms, arched, bent backwards, into a cucumber. The shadow of your back in the night sloped and heavy like this hill. Fir and conifers stuck in my hair, unlike you; a clean leaf. You're soap for your soul, hence mine. This step, one inch closer to you than my feet to the ground. This hill lying in your iris festering, pestering my only smirk. Their dry dry dry heart with us, now beating against the wind in the unity of this abandoned log. This door, this lock opens the canals of slumbersome days. In void and space, for me to return to me.
Philandering Crystals I hid it like a miracle, then found it was time to set it free. It came, gently, tapping its feet on arid dust, one by one, step by step. I covered it with mud and slugs, not a nice place to live, but certainly shelter. It sighed, I took its hand, so no one would be tempted, to steal the shine. I swallowed it and a big gulp it was, too. Gluck, gluck, gluck...I cleared my throat to a smooth lining and toned to mute; for a dash or two, then crumbled to crumbs. Whence, I fell into the gap of dirty old pragmatism, bleached. Broke my neck, knee and tree floating ashore, dried to sea salt.
Maestro’s Midnight Ensemble With that whip in your pupils I went mad, kissing your satin curves. You shone and rose, to know
what I could be, then you sank, retrieved your tears and wiped mine. I find that my words lose essence, in your smashing whip. I gather them to bottle them up, and promise never to linger: may be that’s the way. Certain paths and embracing loss in your tomorrow, in mine doubt that itches; waiting for your fingers to scratch. I am all here and you are somewhere I can’t define. When I go, once I go will you look back? Free yourself from the slap. You know… I’ll be gone soon. Tires will roll on wet dripping asphalt, and one bag will do me, you know that, too. I’ll be one with the clouds. With that whip in your pupils, I will be dreaming, in golden liqueur. You’re searching I’m telling …. Simple answers, in no more rhymes. Come to the clouds soon, once I’ve left. Have me delusional, again.
Maestro; Can and Does Maestro can't run from this heart, he is troubled and serene. My maestro is fresh, slender as grass. My grass is at the bottom of the ocean, his is on some random mountain. I sweat the nights in his breath lacking on the back of my neck. My shoulder blade, a sword on the mattress. His blades of thrusting fear are coming in, just as monsoon. I am dreading to be flushed past the rivers of seconded minutes. Maestro is gentle and kind
he is sad and lonesome, though he has his midnight melancholy to drop him off at his bed, and me a more dangerous feel. My Maestro is scared, because he doesn't know my bruises can't heal, without his finger prints. He fears for he has burnt in fires, and has found no wires to last his expensive buyers, of whom all know the value of gold, silver and the like. I know none of what he imagines, but I am one with him; love takes the shape of the loved as thoughts mingle in their own twinkle. I can't run from my Maestro, like Tinkle Bell, I fight off envy and that nautica of caught philandro. I await him in the seas, the sands, the forests, the caves, the castles, the walls, the sheets, the boars of my desires. My Maestro knows his way, though laughs my way too. I wonder at the past glass of his shattered expectations and crave him ever more. My Maestro, will bathe in fragrant water with me and as I do in him;
the gap between our doors will meet to an absolute line of highness, pure as the whitest grind. The founded fears will yell louder in the ache of his muscles. My Maestro, for tonight, tomorrow and the following week to last a century.
Blue, My Ghost I'm on feather smoke clouds, you are far behind, far below. In my mind your marshmallow lips smile in tears. You embrace the bottle from its neck. I seek warmth in the black red tumbler. A lonely soul I have come to be, in the corridors of this spilling vessel. The horizon is empty, there is a fine line between the glass blue and the mist white. Your skin, pale as silver shining, I seek seek seek you in all lines of the earth. Beautiful ghost, don't you vanish, or be erased by the hand that shaped you, loved you, made you! I listen to the opera, and I listen to me, I listen to jet engines. In nightmares I feel safe as a tiger,
for you will see soon there is a fine line between glass blue and mist white. I have come to cyan skies and gold mounts of jungle hills. There is only a thin veil between me and you and not miles and miles of prayer. My blue ghost, I close my eyes and there you are splendidly lost with that scar on your eyebrow; two inches deep a thousand kisses weep. You're driving across the country with a knife in my heart. I am only a thin veil away, come and cover up my sins with your naked skin. Come and touch my goose bumps with yours, in salute for the sun.
Lovable Tap
Imaginary cat, brown eyes, white fur. Her name, Pat. She cooks and bakes and when I come back converses Nietzsche and Sartre. Likes to drink Cabernet. She smokes misty cigars so passes me one, too. Wears scarlet lip stick. When we go on a night out, with music loud she hums Nina Simone, she recites Neruda. Likes medium-rare steak, eats like an eagle. Imaginary friend, out dining with Kant and later out seducing Hepburn. She sips zealous fluid from her breasts and lips. My imaginary cat, everyone called Pat. Now I call her, fat. And now she knows, why the street snows. Pat, the cat. No longer, pet the cat. Imaginary glass and conversation,
elapsed.
Mademoiselle Merry Wipes and cleans, she reeks of bleach and soap. Her timid weak hair, the same with her scrub brush. Once too dirty, twice far too sparkling. Her soul needs cleansing, so she chooses crockery to disinfect. There is a little pore in her, open to suggestion and in me too a sprinkle of hope. Nevertheless, she cleans and oh, how she does. A manicure and a pedicure for the queen,
and a large black bin bag full of nails, so she doesn't have to clean at all. She rips herself, she collects dust. She reeks of soap, she has no breath. Sweat lips and armpits. Oh, how I watch her somewhere down on this earth slowly sliding by. No more bodies, no more souls, no such thing as a clean slate, a clean plate, a clean sheet, a frigid life! Can't anyone hear this cracking? Her hands, her knuckles, her heart... A blossom broken matador, beaten on the hippodrome, on hot ground trailing with dross. She is always at a loss. The lies of her life, born from pink one's or some others’ blue cons. She uses a toothbrush, and a random toothpick to stay alive. I slumber, as she strives. On her knees, with a million ants crawling through her skin, she is my adorable Mademoiselle Merry, she is my first Eve. How I wonder who she is, besides her spray starch and stinking polish. When all goes to waste, she is my four leaf clover. Yesterday she fell, doing the laundry
and a coin dropped, sharp on its side. She is my wicked witch, bleached and dirty. I am a due curse, waiting in a bibliotheque.
Offbeat Ponderings The dawn came upon us like an umbrella tucking the night. We lay in our thoughts and thought, slipping out... Botticelli's angels. Only dark as red wine or a Java bean, without the grace of a sylph. The words. Like mouth music from heaven or hell, on nipples marble and buttocks arctic when spruce. Recreating human beauty. In an angel caged erect from desire, devout to leachy frenzy. The clumsy existence of stars.
Those that descend hastily and fall close to flesh; phosphorescent, pubescent. So amidst these parodies, we shared only a swallow of this and another world on the meek surface of a granted orb.
Frank-Einstein I watched a movie and sobbed. A movie on architecture, I never thought could... ...stab this pin cushion.
The hand that built, was the one I passed by, were actually; the palms scaling with roughness, anchoring through time and space. Those pyramids and gentle quartz sails reaching out, breathing, shivering, seeking love in human eyes. Noone turned back for a second gaze. The aging fingers and crumpled papers glued together in imagination, to gather creative vaccination in this solemn prayer to chant, life itself. Six others watched with me, perhaps two more of him.. The lonely curtain yelped in the sinking appetite of velvet seats. The fascinating child-like mind, and the sweet smell in snapshots carved themselves in Dolby surround to these walls around my cloud. The linger of skin on the granite whispered. As it enchanted to itself, I died in life. In this quadrant of time, I blush the left days with sand in my caves.
Apple Core Unravel the secrets of life to me, so I keep falling intentionally instead of digging my nails for bright stars and finding dirt lousy in loud buckets. Zig zags, tris-trams, grenades of quick rushes of love, running clear in fortuneless ivy coming to my home of neurotic silence. Silence, learnt in patience. Unravel the secrets of life to me, the time of poisons. Crack me a cocoa bean with your fingers and suck the powder sere, tarry with me to that bitterness on your tongue and light me up with truth on the roof. Hocus pocus and here comes much dreaded affection. Silence, has it been, the loveliest of passions or have the dragons of fire spat ice? Unravel the secrets of life, when one is five. I have been five, ten and twenty, and ever more worthy. Fill up this bucket with hay and stones, for I am late and bronze.
Sweetest Gremlin Trembling In uncertain grounds, a little creature lives, it breathes, within. You have given it a home, and care. It has grown. Once more; now, it grows. Under the kiss of your mouth. its heartbeat, can be heard from the shop round the corner. It doesn't take a genius to know anything at all. They say, if you break a mirror, it's seven years of misfortune. I never broke a mirror, Now my end meets my beginning. The little creature, aghast… Still grows in the nest, thinking, 'what a fest'. I see you shifting your steps, Back to front, front to back. I know what you feel.
In magic lands, miracles await, you must sustain. This little creature has to live
for he is life itself. How can you separate, lust and love, life and death, truth and falsity? I never broke a bone, in someone else's flesh, am I to be adored?
I seek to be adorned by you, in scent and flesh, like your dressing gown; I shiver in. Thoughts wrap me abysmal and I weep. I mourn the dawn, each day for I will have to fray one day.
A little creature lives, developing a soul in us. I feel it's breaking me. I resist to desist.
This hour destroys itself, as I cover my mind in hopes. I resist to shiver. No vengeance, no fear and no revenge.
This gremlin of mine, prettier than any other;
for you must sympathise, grows under your eyelashes by peeking at me for lust.
I quest to be drenched in you, in these walls I have built for us. These mirrors are shy. Now that I have shattered me with honesty, affection and life to be enhanced by you. I feed the gremlin. Crossing my fingers, the gremlin might feed us one day soon, in the embrace of our kisses
Canamoroc -42 was the bitterness. 42 was perhaps his life span as he held his hands together, sitting on a park bench
misty with blushing frost. He had had a long journey, to find his grave overflowing with grass. From Morocco to Canada, from sand to snow, rolling eyes in a rolling steel vessel. His 42's met on the pool table of death. His knees extended, his lungs shriveled in the sour melody of pallid breezes. His shirt flanel; his jacket unbuttoned, he became the statue of a man, alive. Then the angels arrived, to take him to the sand and the sea. As his heart-cold blisters melted, he floated down his imaginary Nile only to return once again, to his -42.
Echoless Duck Green necked, turquoise tailed orange beaked, his quack died. His voice, lost in his depth. The duck has no sustainability. His quacks leaking into air like black smoke from a chimney; his echo lost, his tail stuck,
swimming in defunct waters, diving to find his shrunken sense. The dinner table looks pretty, with him in the middle, glazed and pomegranate saucy like the fat dripping into my mouth. The duck echoless, served with a side of apathy. Green necked, tenderly sliced. The duck lost...amidst this plate and the other in front of you. Mmmm....delicious.
Sock in the Shoe I knew the day would come, I anticipated it. Now I feel like a dirty sock in a lonely clean shoe, free of mud and dust. I am cotton and perishable. I have a hole by the toe where I hang down low, with frenzy on my heels. Only if I had some lather and hot water I could be new for another day, but perhaps that's the easy way.
I could be in the tub, or the twirly but again, that's another whirly. At half time I could have fries, curly. The toe wouldn't have it though, she's a ball of tough dough. Here I go down and under, the shoe, cold and soft. I have to first slide my neck in; warm up just a bit. Then, may be my legs, if the stink trapped allows me. I knew the day would come, I waited. I counted the wash cycles and missed them all. Now I need to, climb.
The Brick Terracotta, black, mossy bossy standing alive, breathing absorbing. One that stands out flushed white, bleached. Raped. On the mirror, contused. Seasons fall, people call that solid brick so balmy and yielding. Single, in solitude fizzing. Oceans’ surface, bleeding. Time no boundary breaking aloud, crevicing still standing, the brick.
My Hell Across the sea,
across the land... there is a space... space is length... length is infinite. There is a painting, called 'My Hell' on my favourite wall, right between the two grand windows. This painting, amber, scarlet or dark; This object, from the distance of these feet so close in the memory. Across these hills, I climb to an opening, an entry. The latch is broken, imagination freed, all that there is left now; the pursuit. The journey long, the voyage across mines… across my mind never crossed my blood, always in flow with the cells. There is a painting, in the criss-cross of thoughts. There is a sculpture in the space, my bones yearn... There is a paper cut across this one bone.
Is it a fake? There is a painting, it's called 'My Hell...'
Dream In sleeps' hug I left myself... Rocking train and burning sunset there goes my mind set. Oh me, just like a little senseless elf.
As I cherish my daydreams reaching out to gather more; merciful dawning picks sweet cherries than just a haze of seeds.
The warmth, the surreal melting, of my hair on the train window
singing for a funeral of mosquitoes 'watch out, watch out, you are going to crash!'
That last classroom! This song now, I feast on. Bore and cone, the dream evolving. In canister shell; skull. As though a trooper is, marching against passages and potter alongs. No tree is my umbrella, can't even fit Alice in the keyhole there. No substance can be as my bee manufactured delight. Oh sweetest dream, stay the life. Just in case, I don't die.
Trespassing There is a wet ticket in my mouth it keeps absorbing saliva. It swells up like a sponge, it melts like the insect too close to heat. Oh, I could not go, I never made it. The trains and the planes did not charge. I am stuck on this platform it is damp, it is cold.
Got Nada Dear Llama Mumbling, rambling, rattling. Snake-tongued, murderous. Cooling cabinets and loose change all my life is, now.
Doesn't matter truly Doesn't really bother, my Muriel. Pacing steps in pacing winds. Dazzling sun and stars. All is left for tomorrow, now. Lowering baskets, for bread and milk. Yesterday is a hidden serpent. Doesn't really count, my Ariel. Try to write, try to breathe. Can never read through the castration. Just keep rattling, ts-ts-ts-ts ‘til tail tosses another coin. Cooling cabinets empty now. Doesn't really matter or does it? Got nada dear llama. From your friend s-s-s-nake.
Lost in Turns Return, difficult to overcome, like a hill that's too steep to walk on, let alone to run to. Return seems too sudden to float along to. Return is another planet, I have left far behind. Return is a lemon, on the tongue of a cow. Return, is my mind, out of its place. In traces of nostalgia, return takes to me.
I don't dare take time, to find this in turn; that all returns are of need and those that are not, are of fresh seed; they rot in this dew. Return packs my bags, return puts me to sleep. Return makes me hopeful, that I may be me, in this thought's cold light. That I may meet demise, in my steps towards that lizard hill, slipping under my heel, leaving me its tails, one by one. Return, has turned towards me, I have skipped low. Return, awaits my hair falling down onto the floor, with each coal strand burning to gray ash. As, I return, I return, return, return, to that high drop, like an angel without wings, or tricks. I return.
Just Just a square, only a triangle, it was...between the leaves and the trees. It was absolutely crucial to leave it, the way it was. Given spoken demands to my senses, out loud in my hours of defenseless slumber. Have slapped myself, time and time over in repetition of desire locked into olives. I have left it as it was, to be celebrated, in summer's berries, in autumn's cherries.
I flip the records, I drip the make up.... then I sit and mourn the dropping leaves. He says, ' I used to have that album, but it walked somewhere,' shrugging. I kill the bottle dry and all the tunes come, raining. I reach, I grab and my laces come undone. These faces I hide, in these gloves, I call my flaws. He sits, drinking his coffee in two gulps, I list a few thoughts and make the day pass by.
He says, ' I used to have that album, but it walked somewhere,' my wondering heart tries to find his record of thoughts...in heat perhaps, for just a circle, just a dab of hunger. Just the way it was, when flesh was united, in my tissue and no issue are my thunders.
Just me and just him, in the fate, it was. In calendars I have erased all days alone. In rest, in peace, in tender breeze I sideline my purple tone to live alone and vanish together.
In a Room The sphere on the desk, still spins on its own using its own will, lazy orange like, sun like, moon like, tan like. She points at the sphere closing her eyes, and chooses a continent... I loose a city and I pick a mountain, or a river to abandon this wreck. My twin, she is narrow-sighted. She sees me, far-sighted. Together we are no sight at all. Blinded by the touch of her finger, and the look of her futile eyes. She blushes as she burns, I freeze as I sneeze in the cradle of lies she has laid. The sphere shrinks on its own accord, like a ball of wool, in steam.
I am in a tea tin, sniffing the world, with my strawberry pores awaiting a bloom in hell.
Tents of Thoughts I've been thinking, drinking spit. Cramping... lurking in the warm water of gold mines, in fields of potato leaves. Your signs from afar, my lines from tar engraved in potato skin. I used to peel them, I no longer do, No one likes it but you. I used to dress in layers, I no longer do, No one has known me, through this transparent soul. The more we broad walk, the more we loud chalk, the more I sing folk, the more you choke in my thoughts; I think, trusting lust. The past was me in your past, was you, in mine too? Let me glue your palms to my leather belt in eternity shall we share a tent, under the sky of potato skin, starry.
Give me none, give me all, tell me all, tell me none, love me tall, love me fall. I think, potatoes. I sip, tomatoes, blood was it? Not a potato, was it? What was it? I undress, I tie my eyes with your scarf. I bite the pillow. My teeth are bitten by the pillow. I walk on the wooden floor, and hear the slap of my feet and touch the veins on the surface with my toe prints. The skin is too shallow, the mind is too, two. Someone's ripped my right side. I've been thinking potatoes.