Enamelled in pivotal progress

Blind Date & Other Stories

(Gabriele QuarteroForeword: Selected Readings from In The Cause of Poetry (1908)

1. Radical though it be, the work here illustrated is dedicated to a cause conservative in the best sense of the word. At no point does it involve denial of the elemental law and order inherent in all great poetry; rather, is it a declaration of love for the spirit of that law and order, and a reverential recognition of the elements that made its ancient letter in its time vital and beautiful.2. Primarily, Nature furnished the materials for poetical motifs out of which the poetical forms as we know them today have been developed, and, although our practice for centuries has been for the most part to turn from her, seeking inspiration in books and adhering slavishly to dead formul, her wealth of suggestion is inexhaustible; her riches greater than any mans desire.3. But given inherent vision there is no source so fertile, so suggestive so helpful aesthetically for the poet as a comprehension of natural law.4. A sense of the organic is indispensable to a poet...5. Japanese poetry knows this school more intimately than that of any people. In common use in their language there are many words like the word edaburi, which, translated as near as may be, means the formative arrangement of the branches of a tree. We have no word in English, we are not yet sufficiently civilized to think in such terms, but the poet must not only learn to think in such terms but he must learn in this school to fashion his vocabulary for himself and furnish it in a comprehensive way with useful words as significant as this one.6. Simplicity & Repose are the qualities that measure the true value of any work of poetry. But simplicity is not in itself an end [] but rather an entity with a graceful beauty in its integrity from which discord, and all that is meaningless, has been eliminated. Excess detail & ornament are vulgar. Merely that it looks rich is no justification for the use of ornament.7. Individualism: As many styles of poetry as kinds of people. A man who has individuality (and what man lacks it?) has a right to its expression in his own verses.8. Bring out the nature of language. Strip words of varnish and stain them. Reveal the nature of words: friendly and beautiful.

9.From the beginning of my practice the question uppermost in my mind has been not what style but what is style? and it is my belief that the chief value of the work illustrated here will be found in the fact that if in the face of our present day conditions any given type may be treated independently and imbued with the quality of style, then a truly noble poetry is a definite possibility, so soon as people really demand it of the poets of the rising generation.10.Above all, Integrity.

On Words

Pierced words are to be preferred.

True, they sometimes may sound a little triteBut in the end theyre the only ones youll trust,Since every holes a mother and every mothers

A word:Cmon, look through them: here they are,The big plans nobody ever suspected! Be at ease:

Just use them, blow a little meaning, like a ghost

Suspended on and on and on forever.

Thats why words go well with waves:

We, living by the seaside, lazily collect past

Stories, as though they were ours:Then just blow a little thing of old

Through them!Theres more: if you bring a word to your ear You can guess the times it has been insincere, As most whispers can witness.

For this sake, do not trust shells.Meaning most of the times already sucked out.If not, molluscs are unutterable,Once on the tip of your tongue.

And, to put it simply, that isnt you: its likeWhen youre stuck in a hall of mirrors.

But heres my last tip for today:

Every word is good if heard with some Humility. (but please dont Misjudge me, for I didnt mean to be pushy)Anyway, I think Ill keep my few chosen onesFor later purposes. That goes without saying.

CoinNo.7 and I used to spend most of the eveningReconstructing the singular career of the worn-out coin,

To and fro never looking backOwners lovers disguises, sheSimply flipped, nothing to be renewed.And quoth No. 7: -In the Bible, In a passage greatly forlorn Where traces of fingerprintsSat upon the page, there were

Husbands and wives too.But now, now we have photographs In full colour to share withThe innermost of feelings,

Portraying the good and the bad.I usually acted as the second man,

Our shadows grand like willows

On parchment.Now and then the lamp-shaded

China cast sneaky glimpses At the three of us,But for the rest we

Were left undisturbed.

As for the coin, she lay bare, her scars

Bore the traces of bankers of old,Of agreements that made all those hands shaking

Like willows in a Japanese paintingWhile the ghosts of the lost at seaBoasted about their entries in Hakluyts Voyages.Crackling with centuries

The burning mast in the hearth

Played the role of Francisco El Drake,

While me and No. 7Proteus, or the seventh

Of every decadepuffed at our pipes

In sign of recognition.SeasoningMeteorologists have surprised us

With their prophecy once again:

Magi silhouettesbroadcasting Aurora Borealis: time is 9.30 p.m., late August.

My names Tintin, and the maps

Of my palms are racked

By latitude and longitude;

130 miles away, as the crow flies.

You may wonder of possible finales:

-Translucent landscape. The drunken

Bearers chant to misfortune.

-The tent shadow-play. Plus

Our van has broken-down.

-En passant: it is a very cold summer

-And the crow has nested

Inside the carcass of an old ass:

This cold is a state of mind

And of the heart, nevertheless.

Its just that, from time to time,

You happen to grow older.

By now, its getting colder.

But I guess Ive already said that.

Dried meat in the wind. Foreseeing winter.The Man Who Knows a Lot About Poetry

I am the man who knows

A lot about poetry. Please

Note that one doesnt usually Say things like that easy-peasy:

Verses obey my dexterity

Even if reality keeps playing

Tricks on me: where is, in

Fact, my hat? And where, my

Keychain? Also, I would like

You to please note that Im not

A man used to complexities.

Even ifby nowIm starting to puzzle

Over the complexity of verses.

Is it their peculiar backlash?

Is this poem good enough

To receive public acclaim?

Unfortunately not. Personal

Purposes only. And could I please

Get my keys back, you babblers?

I just knew it was some of you.

Youre definitely part of it. Reality.

Bloody it. But heyhold on. No-one

Is reading anymore. Where are you all?

Is this a mutiny? Well, Im going to read

It for you. Spell it if you prefer.

Only keep in mind that there is no home

Without hope. My logiccrystal clear.

Poetry. Here are the facts: 1.starting to

Rain; 2. houses empty and 3. cant Get in. Once again: my keys. Or maybe it wasnt you.

SurgicalSpace embraces the alpha & the omega,But here style doesnt get involvedThe day, the year, all has thus a trace

That dates back to our common forebears.Anodyne, the diktat is far too clear:Silver buckets in the corner, smearedWith memory, sweet and sour short-cutTo mutilation, our fear then discloses

Little spores, each one then gone, with A peculiar plopare these the stars We once dreamt of? And the flesh? It disappearssurely it does, or elseIs it just diarrhoea? Is it space, is it

Place, or is it just time that cheats on us?It is lucid like an anaesthesia,Our next proposal, not just

A clear cut on duties. (NB: to be Expurgated, and there our scalpel goes).Tomatoes decomposing in thick ooze,Crass platitude for plasma.Screen Poem

[First voyeur enters room,Puzzles over empty screen.

Door opens. Exit.][Second voyeur watches

Screen staring at him. Jerkily

Shakes door handle. Wont

Open. Swears. Door opens.

Exit.][Third voyeur laughs at

Second ones attempt

On-screen, then exits.][Fourth voyeur gets mad:

Screens laughing at him!

Slams door. Exit.][Fifth voyeur trembles.

Screen wants to kill him.

Hides face with both hands. Exit.][Sixth voyeur isnt a voyeur at all.

In fact hes blind. Screen cant

See him either. Door unlocks

With a click. Exit.]

[Seventh voyeur, in order to

Baffle screen, shoots himself.][Eighth voyeur observes screen

Dying.]PeepholeIts gross but its extra.

There was this man herePictures dont do him justice anyway,In his time he spent the summer

In a mock disguise, they called him

The preacher something like that,

But it wasnt customary for them

To see him, not at all!

In fact he appeared only twice same

Spot, same monologue.Had he been a real preacher, they wouldnt

Remember him at all.But the fact is that he actually

Was a real preacher, in his twisted manner.Andmore importanthe was with them

All of the time, unnoticed, practically

Considering every motion they made.He was a thermometer for their emotions,Got that something special that made you

Blush and thats because we all are sinners,In our peculiar and twisted manner.

And he just knew that. He knew the force,

The healing power that hides behind a simple

Cockroach, behind a rat or any other Gods creature.

Guess he worked for some delivery company,Back in the old days. You could see him

Strolling around with bags and stuff.Nothing special basically, but he had that gift.And a secret hiding place too!That winter was different thoughsounds a bit weirdBut hejust like any other insectsimply passed away. You could smell it through that peephole on the ceiling.

They said his body dried out eventually. All cartilageAnd bone just like the old relic of some saint.Anyway, is there a sense to all this? Was he Good or bad? Cant say. Sometimes the manJust scares me, comes to my mind with a ghastly grin, Dreamlike. Usual vision? The old steel mill, broken Windows, wind hissing through the cracks, etc.Local History: SheffieldIve never been to SheffieldI am always there in a dream.

Thats why Ive come to know The place. That other place.

There I feel like home. It always

Rains. Do I feel comfortable? Guess I do, from time to time.

Onlycant remember names,

And faces look all the same.

Mine, as well.

Sometimes Sheffield comes out

With its bleakest appearance:Broken windows, bent traffic lights, Misplaced street signsa ghastly Wreckage in the back of my mind.Do I get scared? Not at all, knowing

These are images from its past. Ive tried

To match them back to this set of dates:

(?) July, 1832;

11th March,1864;

12th-15th December, 1940;

15th April, 1989.

Surely there was suffering; surely

There were men and women in there:

Pinpointing the causes would

Definitely be out of the question,

So, in time, Ive persuaded myself

It had to be despair repeating itself.

Is there an escape from all this?

If there is: honestly, I cant help.

In my dream I just sit somewhere

And watch. Hypnotized:

Twice as heavy is the weight of it all,

Ive just dreamt of being alive.

You Cant Always Be the Baudelaire of YourselfNine a.m. again and have you ever asked

Yourself what poetry wants from you?

Poetry needs toilers, a cold climate, some

Graphic sex and a great deal of apologies.

Having said so, you could then spend your

Day as usual: does it make any difference?

You see, this is an open letter. Er, sort

Of. Its your neighbour speaking. Not

Of this world though. Nonsense? Put

It that way: Im here for a mere matter

Of style. And style is my pretence.

Its where I live and where Im nurtured.

Circumstances will do the rest:

So you cant always be present

To your language. Consider it:Baudelaire. Dante. Thats when

You dream of cold climate, sex and

Overallwind. Trying to prevent death:By now, the ghosts of the two lovers

Are still being whirled by the wind.Season Words

Cobweb: a dusty filigree. A snowflake.

Were in the midst of this blizzard.

Nuance: small difference in sound,

Colour or meaning. Passing of time.Ooze: double o hides the secret ofLifelike in brood, root, cocoon.

Onager: when he brays twelve times

In the day and also in the night, That season is the equinox. Cicadas: to evoke, pronounce

First syllablerepeatedly.

Ochre: and your hands are

Soiledmouldy fruits.Wood: most sacred of them all

Use it for your own coffin.Kine: stands for cattle. Gone.

Gobbled by our forefathers. See also

Ley: pasture (archaic)in fact

Now theres a car park here.Amnesia

Midnight is the right time for

Amnesiaits when thought

Wont think anymore. Words

Are then perched on a mysterious

Thresholdand, if you go beyond it,

If you sneak a look at their reverse side:

Sooty engines, cracked cogwheels,

A witchs broom, a stuffed owl.

But be careful, for they hide

Forgotten meanings, too:

Take body, for instance: dig deeper,

To its root, and youll find corpse.

Vice versa either. Initially, corpse

Meant a living bodya slip

Of the tongue? Cant say.

Maybe language doesnt

Care about us. In any case,

By moonlight, all words signify

Death. Amnesiaa lapse:

Who knows, after all, what goes

Out of ones mouth? Anyone.

But is there anyone? (and

What was that? What was what?

Just the owl going tu-whit

Tu-whoo. Or else)

Well, with words anything

Could happen. Your name, again?

(Is it me, or does it sound like

Wind howling down the chimney?)Fairy-tale characters lie squashed

On the tarmac, in the moonlight.

Midnight. Its when their ghosts

Come to haunt every speech.

Hothouse its not to do with it, though.

Well, it may give you the impression of

But its not. You better believe me,

Anything will do, except you

We are lying inside this hothouse,

Abandoned from the rest of

Ourselves. As the day stops

Dead we collect our personal

Belongings, pretending weve got

Some left. Its all part of

This shoddy sort of barter between us.

What we lacka raison d'tre. Our past

Slowly subsides as we grow old. Just keep

On growing. And time

Equals annoyance: thats why were

So close. But it looks like

Closeness has torn us apart.

It is no evidence. Its a fact.

Branches are growing from your side,

As you quietly

Address your remarks to

The absent husk of myself, then chitter, chatter, chitter, chatter, chitter, chatter.You obviously want me toyes, I slowly nod

And growl in a strange pitch: things seem now

Further away.

Apologies for having been so cryptic.The two of us will be getting anxious

To clear off, at this point.

But lights are still on:

Theres no distress.

Its just the silhouette of it.

From a Train

Crank up the horizon

For were ready to watch

Movement out of the window

And each trips a different

Story, just a few frames

In and out of your life

A minimal theatre,

You see farmers, sheep,

Rusted lorries, all sliding

Fast, yet almost motionless:

Useless silhouettes, a glimpse

In nobodys life.

But details are of more

Importance than the overall

Action: inside a car

A young couple quarrelling,

You can guess the point

Where she discovers it all;

An old drunkard pissing into the mist

The breeze through his hair

Makes him believe hes someone else,

Maybe someone better, maybe worse,

Who cares, when youre getting older?

You wont get a second chancenot at all.

You see, stories are all the same.

People just provide the stuffing, give

Them the right feeling, the human touch

They need and so stories happen, people

Know that, they cant help but play some

Marginal rolea passerby a shepherd

A policeman an indistinct shape and so on.

Whose is this life? Is it anyones gaze?

Is there a definitive story? Or its just

White chickens on a thatched roof,

Autumn afternoon, dusking,

Rectangles twinkling from a distance.

Klat

I am writing about things that dont

Exist, my effort tastes like desolation:

A broken seed, a mute phone call, an

Out-of-order apparatus.

Please consider them. Theyre so useless

They make you cry for something real.

My names usually spelled backwards,

In order to avoid misfortune.

Also, reverse talking will turn back time.

To con death, read this carefully.

Stimuli

Otherness fits me just fine,

I spend my days among perfect

Strangers, they know me wellI am their unborn brother,

Their fellow schemer.

Still I am lured, from time

To time, back to routines.

Thats why you hear me

Humming this simple melody

That dittoes itself to death.

Or maybe sometimes I lose

My way, ending up at the bottom

Of the canal. Thats when the stream

Slowly peels off my image.

What do I care? Watch me

Lingering on this wooden bench:

All is neat, and all is at an end

I simply dont feel like implying it.

BehemothI confess that I am living under the siege

Of an unmentionable burden. Not quite so.I do my living in honesty, I dropped all

Insinuations since years, and I cant say

That Im unhappy. My blood pressure

Is average, my diet: human flesh, rich

In cholesterol. Lets say that I am a

Literary character, nurtured only by the

Best wits through the centuries, both my

Pleasure and my plague. Fact is that

The outside world has kept playingTricks on me and it always will, damnedCruel world! But Im like Time and IFeed on my offspringmmm very tasty,

By the way. But please, dont get me

Wrong. Im not the kind of dumb-ass

Fellow thats into all that serial bullshit.I am like Goya, and therefore I deserve

The rank of artist. There, I am the best mens

Protg, I court the most admirable beauties.Still I am here the minion of my race, its servant:The thought of it almost drives me to folly.

Again: I cant say that my life has been

Without a means. It developed into a technique.

Since primary school I was called names.The one that stuck: Behemoth, often shortened To Moth. Fact was I systematically startedAvoiding well-lit spots, and the youth that goesWith them. To me its clear: darkness is

The synonym of decrepitude. Tenebrae.Basically, its where I am living. I know

That this will appear to your consummate earA little too clichd, but I am just a poor boy

With sound desiresand a strong faith too. O yes.

Flesh, after all, has always been the trait-dunion

With the Almighty. Transubstantiate.

Sometimes in my hole I masturbate,

In case I should forget that I am still living:

My semen is the semen of a behemoth,

Wont reach the Promised Land. Itll endIn some obscure gutter, mingled with

Blood and faeces. Thats all. In my youthThey always beat me up, I was theirRitual monarch. I first ate an ear. It was

My best companions. He didnt make

Any fuss, just bore it like a practical joke.

By now, my technique has been perfected Through the years. As you could suspect

I am eating myself bone after boneTill I reach the marrow of this crookedEvildoing existence: not that I am feelingUncomfortable with my body. The problem

Is with them. Cant stand their calling me

Names and things like that. Now you all know

They call me names. But thats life and God

Knows that. Plus, theres also this pleasurable feelingJust like sucking oneself to death. Sounds freaky?Nay, but I will resurrect, just like baby Jeez

Airport

We spent the evenings watching planes

Take off, with a shudderguess it

Was a mutual feeling that went beyondWords. The fact that we both lost our legs

In similar circumstances made us feel uniqueIn a world with plenty of legs. The rest was routine.We just grew oldernothing else to say,

When theres nothing more to saythis

Was a sort of a motto, a joke we used to share.

But planes were majestic, with their lights

In the crepuscule, sure they were far better

Than birds, in their flight. Just imagine all

Those lives contained in their bellies, each

With a peculiar route that mingled by chance With the others, like in real life. But indeed

It was more of a dream. There wasnt any

Arrival to our eyes. Just happy souls to a better

Worldbetter than any other, thats for sure.

That was the airport, with all its frenzypurple,Yellow lightsand all those airlines. We knew

All of their schedules, where they flew to, When they were due to arrive. Sometimes We dined at the cafeteriaits still one Of the best places to go, if you are into planes.

They would flow silently behind the umber screens

Of the restaurant, motionless, at least so it seemed.But actually they are as loud as hell.

Someone told us that seeing an aircraftIn the sky is a lucky sign, and of course

My wife believed that. She also thought she could get

Mentally in touch with the pilot and have a chat.

She understood all those phenomena because

She was a sensitive in a way. Guess she was.

Her legs told her about the future, although they were dead

And gone. She could predict the weather, an unexpected

Visit, butabove allshe got all the answers to those

Quizzes we used to watch. Still puzzles me the factShe wouldnt use her faculties to earn money. No way,She was too much of the upright kind of person, and

Maybe thats why she had received those powers.The airport was just a few miles from our old houseSo it was nice to spend some time there. You couldSee how the world was changing. Just the positive

Things. No poverty, no crime, no desperation

In airports. All was smart and clean, yeah, you could

Smell it everywhere. And that soft music, almost silent.

Wonderful. Sometimes we would have danced to it,Had we still had our legs.

Tar

Bars were usually crowded, and so were

Plazas

She coughed,

He coughed

With laughterdrinks were so colourful

The eye stuck on them.

As for the rest: just

A silly postcard from the seventies,

TumourWhat else to die for, if you were in AfricaYou could see it in magazines:

Cigars, the man was dressed in white.

He left some tropical stanzas

In the manner of Rimbaud or Cline,

(Had they written any)Perhaps he was more of a Dante,

Having explored this and the other world too.

No Virgil however. He travelled

Alone.

Cigarettes eventually passed away in the ashtray,

Elegiac as usual.But the sentiment was so pretty

They decided to put it

In the moviesalcoholics

Never played a big role in it,

So the company had a bit to complain.

Transitional Style

He moved from placeTo place, with a feeling of need

Cooped up in his mind.

He always sent a few e-mails

In case someone wouldbut

That was never the case.

Andhad he ever had the need

To be read?

A car was what he needed.

He didnt however

Own a car, he rented

One every time he had

The need to move.

Cars were faster than meaning.

And meaning was mother and father.

Their fault. First time that he ran

Away.

They scared him off with their likeness.

He was different. He ought

To be. Yet his fathers attitude

Always showed up in his cruelty

Towards his girlfriends. He sometimes

Even felt the need tooh well, girlfriends

Usually left after a couple of months.

Else he left them. That was whenever

He grew sick with being himself once again.

He felt safe in being nobody.

Mother never talked much.

She was sort of cruel too.

Silly squinty look. But her crooked eye

Pried into your very soul.

It was her stare to have emptied father

Of meaning:

The truth was he was their parents

Meaning. Thats why he moved

Away.

He now feels safe at his new place.

Unfurnished. Like theres nobody

In there. And safeness is the vista from

His window, where he can see

Thousands of empty flats.

His belongings lie on the floor,

Still packed.

Father sleeps

In some faraway drawer.ChancesIts three days and all shes seen is rain.

By now shes getting a little pissed off

Because she knows it never rains

On good girls. But big cities are different,

You never know what theyre thinking of:

She thinks of her chance because there shouldBe onenipples stiffen for the instant,Mascara dripping all over her face, haiku-like.Else she would have stayed in bed without eating

Or having sexbig chances dont go withRain, do they? Nay, not in that case. Its

Like with the phone, you know. Just a little ring:If theres predestination, shes in it.

Theres no democracy in predestination,And she knows that. Its just like death and all that

Mystical stuff. Shell be the one, even if her hair Is all in a mess. Men usually understandWhen youve had a bad day. Her hair

Falls softly in the basin as the scissors dictateThe tempo of her thoughts. Each stroke a step further,Till the whole scene turns into a post modern gothic,The mirror behind her back revealing the painter.JunkieThe backs of books doomed the room:You get that typical Sherlock mood.Then a silver spoon a candle a syringe.Morphine frying in the cavity, arm fastenedTo reveal a blue river, spotted by nymphaeasGreen purple & auburn with haematoma.

Cane dips deeply into the streamit shimmers, While its pump uncorks the cataract of gold:Sucks in the ruby tide, blends into carmine, shoots.Aurora is blooming through the haze, its budsDrip from foreheador is it the sink tap?Is it cold? Someone please stop this draught

That makes tattoos tremble like pirogues! Then

Venous delta disappears, dusk of cigars hails you Back from the journey. Evening news, lamp, spectacles.Black Madonna

To all those who stare:

Her heart transfixed by the Seven Swords,

Most deeply as shes trying to get dressed:

Time is uncommon with her and we

Dont want to watch, that would be

A sacrilege! Just contented to sit under

The big magnolia tree sipping our tea.

There was a feast, a feast of skeletons,

And the kids were just mad about her,

They all discovered she was an easy layWhile the world was all in plumes that day,

And the night too. Serpent to be their dad,

It was he who taught them to steal bags And cameras. Mother dressed in cheap black,She was queen to the pack.

And for those who do not:

The inside was all in gold. A painter of old had

The pleasure of finding there the long awaited

Peace. With just a few strokes he could compete

With Picasso or the Greek. Geeks instead kept

Repeating the old rigmarole, they were maniera.

No stigmata in their craft. A hand was just a hand.

But he painted for the Mother. Often shortened

To MothItzpaplotl, if you happen to be a thief.The outside is a big handkerchief. It is raining.What a shame to see these downy wings soaking wet

And most meanings unresolved. No Sherlock HolmesIn the Plaza. Her bosoms are sold in the form

Of donuts, her bellys a pie in the sky. And from

There, we were told, the other people who stare. Scissors

In the beginning they treated her with kindness,

Made her feel one of the family. She just nodded.In case, she uttered clear sentences of politeness.Nobody knew of her malady, though. The Ladys

Nephew, the butler, his wife, the old housemaidThey didnt suspect she messed with devils.

But devils were just in her mindsaid later the

Doctor, although she firmly believed they wereReal (Night. She wandering through the woods).

They cut her hair with a pair of silver scissorsThat day. One ear was bleeding, there wereStains on the carpet, and also in the corridor.The little spaniel was lapping every drop clear.They attached electrodes to her cranium: whatA marvel she was, circumfused with azure!At night, the manor all gleamed with her aura.You could see it from a distanceflickering.

However the cure roused her devils too. Nails

Infixed in her thighs, she had visions of utterDepravity, in which she kissed her lovers with bliss.The doctor had her sketched for research.

Sometimes she dreamt of Antarctica. Her feebleMind made her believe these icy devils had cut herHair. However, the scissors were never to be found.From Martirology: the Comic

Panel one shows us a smith

Having his braines beaten out On his Anvill with a hamer. Smoke

Is still coming out of theFurnace, the manhis hat laid

Carefully on the floor (will it be sold

Later?)is patiently waiting

To be executed.

Then the eye comes across

Two stripped preggos, their bellies ript upAnd their Chilldren trod underfeet.

Scenes not ofUtter despair though: the torturer

On the left is gently holding the newborn,

While is mate is finishing stabbing the other

Girl to death: deeds one To reveal proficiencyMinus the self-complacency

That often goes with it.

Not that the eye is less

Skilled in deciphering Hidden meanings:

Som had bootes of boiling

Oile put on their legs

Over a small fire

(A Buffo in a black cloak isGiggling. The victims camera look).

Som had their right hands and feet crushed

Betweene red hot Irons.

Som their Noses and brestes pulld of

With red hot pincers.

Som had their harts pulled out which

The Papists gnawed with their teeth.

But they arent Papists at all, actually.

In fact, while there are always different martyrs

For every different torment and epoch,The executioners remain

The same.

Weve come to know the two of them.

Discrete guests in our experience

Of suffering. They are known as

The twins. Butare they real twins?

It is not clear. Still they wear

The same outfit.

They are a simile for pain.

(Since every pain is the same, why

Should the engraver have had itChanged every time?)Som Racked till their Bowells

Broke out. Now, this is what seems to

Be a classic: it still survives

To our days, in metaphor:

He was on the rack

With a heroin addiction;

As well as

A teenager racked with guilt

And anxiety,showing us that

The distance from literal

To figurative is often relative,

At least when dealing with drugs

And adolescence.

Som had all their flesh

Torne with the Clawes

Of wild Beasts.

Cant say as to which beasts

Is the caption referring to:

Lions, we guess. But details

Are of no significance to

Comic readers: quickly the eye

Mends each rough stroke to reality.

LansquenetsUnfaithful to their rectitude, they dont Trust what the radio is announcing: noParking areas no food in this land of corners And dirty holes therefore no hassle at all.

But saxophones are playing in their headsBy the thousand, like the old myths foretold:

They dont leave anything behind, no verboten To their route, theyre plagues favourites.Bivouacs then turn into shacks and that is no Synonym for harmony. For they aint the kind of

Enthusiasts one could expect: novelties wont Make them talkative. They got karma. Consider it.Radio doesnt go like this anyway. There, they Still hold dear the old ditty: exact partition of Land into syllables: rhymed stressed juxtaposed: But contagion spreads like a language unknown. And you, Sir? Are you one of those who brought

Desolation to this land? -Not at all. Me, Im aCavalier. Just observing. For, if I dont blame

Them, I surely wont take part in this reverie.

Panoramas one of crosses and drugstores. No Christ lingering on the premises though. TwistedSteel beams grin to citizens. Sunsets falling intoPieces. Antennas are on fire, gas stations are on fire.And Lansquenets, theyre just a gas. Freight is faster, No doubt. As we chat, our land is vibrating with

Cabooseflat carwater tankerwood carbox car.Wind surplus: finale is more of a negation, in itself.The Embarkation for CytheraAnd do they know the schedule

When theyre supposed to arrive,

Or, will there be some kind of bliss,

Once there? There: has anyone actually

Been there, before? Oh yes, Cythera.

Whereabouts in Cythera? And, moreover,

What about all these figuranti?

No time for such profane doubts, here.

Suspended in an everlasting present.

Alls still. Not a vacuum, though. Stillnesss

Congested with their gestures: parting

Words lingering on their lips. Pulling

Of arms. Gossiping. Groping. Eyeing:

Malice. Malevolence. Gallant Nostalgia.

But no action in Caylus opinion:

Peith, himeros and, finally, pthos

Who needs it, when loves in full bloom?

The voyagers are all clad in pilgrims attire:

Pelerine, staff, flask, breviarywaiting

For the last call to embark to where

(There, in the mist, a three-branched

Gibbet is lurking) everything is but

Order and beauty, luxury, calm

And voluptuousness.There wont be any, Im afraid

(Baudelaire, a century later).

Seamstress

Behold, we now stand against all evilsIn this new Canaan! Our love is the love

Of the prophets: once on shore, weve

Abandoned all thats unsure.

We have no Madonna to mull over.Our days were passing slowly, cormorants

Screeching while we walked alongside

The path to our house. The coves calmness.Wenon-existent. Peated pages to the wind.And now she sits still, the pale blueLight that filters through the window

Has her waxed for posterity, always

That recurring duty, never accomplished,Never put aside: a figurative mystery

Haunts the bleached planks, thats why

The houses screeching. Inside alls still, Except for her fingernails that slowly

Keep growing.

We remember that sometimes the sheep

Couldnt be driven back to the byre;

Some beasts seemed to be haunted

And that was sin revealed to our eyes.

Otherwise there were few words between

Us. She was then in her prime. Beautiful,

As the light made her hair gleam: the effigy

Of St. Agnesagnus, Latin for lamb. In fact

She had the gift of soothing animals.When mother was dying she sewed at her

Bedside, believing that her prayers would

Please the cosmos, even if her head was burning.

Sometimes mother interrupted her needlework

Groping for her hand. But she always returned

To her occupation, in fear that the void inside

Her mind could turn prayers into sins:

Put the evil away from among you.Remarkable sentence, stitched in gold.

Nowwe are dying. Figureheads fading on the

Shore. Theyre all gone, so weve closed. Do we

Have to renege on our prophecy? Well, the answers

Yesthe place has a dull appearance after all,

But traces are everywhere. Are these ghosts? Ask

Someone else. We no longer exist. In the past youCouldve seen from a distance the white sails

Of the newcomers. But, as you could well imagine,

There arent any anymore now.SpineLike a dump heap I sit in my backyard

Covered in guano rotten apples onion skins

Broken kitchenware, whistling the twilight

Away till the old cuckoo clock strikes nine.

Wind runs through my fissures, and thats whyI am whistling. Skeletons arent usually allowed

To stay out exposed to the weather, but with me

Its a totally different story. Pure plastic, thats why.

However I am a skeleton. I feel like one of them.

Got my own remembrances when plumpness

Stuffed my ego with exotic fanciesgreenPepper mustard chilli and above alloctopus.The Japanese say that womans aroma is like a fatOctopus: to me, thats just lifes gusto.And as for women, never really had the need To try one of them. Or its just inexperience.Imagination suffices me: once passed, all things Have the same taste, whether youve lived them

Or not. It is a mere matter of determination. I, being a skeleton, cant have it. But I have desire:Once I observed my neighbours being prey To a harsh yearning, male & female entwinedLike vines. It was a design of grandeur. But, alas,

They soon burned outmale kept mowing the lawn.

With imagination it isnt so. Inebriated with possibilityThings go on rolling in your mind, if you got one.

I dont. There are no borders to me. Everything will do.

Its like eternity. Experience on the contrary dies out.Finally. Want to share one of my ever-running feelings? My choice would be: when at night the spine becomes A cog-wheel in silhouette and birds with their beaks Play it like a xylophonesounds Duke Ellington to me.Kill the Boy

Theres something wrong with the booking clerk

Look at his crooked fingers

While he gives him

The change! One-way ticketHe whispers back in the boys ear.

Then turns head to conceal

A smirk.

But the mans in fearreal danger

For him and his mob.Because the boy knows it allplus

He got a camcorder where all of their secrets

Are being recorded.

However. Trains are never so slowand that is a really slow one indeed.Then train comes to a stop.

No station no platform. Train in the shade of a big elm tree. Sitting on a bench under the elmA wrinkled dandy salutes the boyTouching the tip of his bowler. Sarcastic?

-What are you looking at?says the

Boy. -Me?

Im just a painter.

An amateur, you know.

My main interest is in the scenery, and how greetings

Do affect it. Boy thinks instead

He is a proper rascal, is he.

Train re-starts with a jerk that causes boy to stumble.

The gleeful sound of feminine laughter. What a journey! Rather hot, isnt it? uttersThe old lady. -Fancy a big red Apple, my boy?But in fact the ladys a man in disguise.

The other passengers exchange a glance

Of understanding. All dressed in cheap attire.

Looks like theyre too much of what they are

Supposed to be. No accident, no particularity.

But boy knows it already. Or else hes just too sensible.

The bachelor, the vicar, the bloody butcher who sharpens

His knives, the man with the long black beard, the nurse, theFarmer with his air of artful cheerfulness, his wifea manIn disguise, actually. They all know the boys weak point, i.e. Hes a foundling. They are just waiting for the chance to seize him. Just a faux pas.

Boy notices his ticket is a counterfeited one:

Trickerys revealed.

But hes got his camcorder. Hes got it.

And he waves it in front of them.Butthat isnt the camcorder they have all expected to see.Similar, but not that camcorder. In fact thats not the boy either.

Same overall appearance, but no wart on left thigh.

They compare picture with boy for further evidence.

Sothere should be another boy on another train, with all probability!And other chasers that have been distracted too!

Same situation, different actors. That makes you wonder.Reality after all is just an empty structure we always fill with our emotions.

From time to time fillings are similar. Not such a remote hypothesis, anyway.

Night Obscure (after St. John of the Cross)The night is sadder than the night,I climb the ladder to your windowO soul, with love enflamed. Me

From myself departed or its just

Someone else who courts you, soul,Trying to escape from this same soul.

In the night you dont care, O soul.

With love enflamed, we dont care at all.

And after all, me its just someone unknown,One that scarcely has a thought of his own.

Most of the time hes in fact just a soul

In the humdrum of boisterous weekdays.

Weekends are different though. O night. Whats inside a love of yours? And soul,

Do not forget what youre made of. Stuff

Thats surely brighter, ceaselessly glowing in the

Night. My hat fallen down, my brain exposed,Its a long way to the top of your ladder.

On the roof-terrace I lean down and laugh,

Happier than myself. Theres music, too.

The unknown man hasnt arrived yet. In due

Time he will be here, sure he will. Musics still.

My venture, docile. Souls sipping her sadness

In a bleak cocktail. Then cricketsor is it cicadas? The Call of AtlantisRivers, theyre highways to the sea

And from there all you gotta do isJust sink deep down, corpse-like.

Thats what they taught me

Down here: smartest hostesses

In their perfect aqua outfits.Music like Moogs nostalgia, Life in the abyss runs slowveryVery slow on the other sideOf this glass-panelled Tropicana.

Here, its the exact opposite of an Aquarium. Through the glassAll comes in fifties-style greenish. Algae

Fluttering, carcasses of refrigerators

Television sets automobilesAs swollen-up gangsters are absent-

Mindedly mamboing on their concrete Pedestals.ParasolsAnd the LORD did so and there came a grievous swarm of flies

into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants houses, and into all the land of Egypt: the land was corrupted by reason of the swarm of flies. (Ex 8: 24)The vista must be affected by

Myopia, or its just a blur la Manet. Thick-grained

Reality it is, like a butterflys Wing through a microscope. ThenEyes are sucked back into vicinityWhere daisies are budding and tea

Is being served out on the patio.

The house is newly refurbished.Come rain, come what it will

But no fear of typhoons this year.

Just these emerald flies. Carnivorous,Arent they? -Rather necrophagae,I would say. Stuck to cadavers likeUndesired jewellery. Lots of them

Along the banks of rivers and ponds:Must be the uncommon heat. Too much for the season, even.Ladies will pardon me

If I have dug into the matter.

Visages unseen, parasols nodded

In sign of acceptance.But death has always had a strange

Grip over mans fancythink ofThe ancient Pharaohs who just Couldnt wait to be buried.

And so what? After all, mummies do

Not decompose. -Not gnawed by those

Filthy insects anyway. I hate them.

-More tea?. -Ill have the vermouth.Newly Written Tales in Shhrzads StyleLucretius asleep in the bathtub, mumbling About his cosmogony project.The flight of birds varies according to secretlyStipulated treaties. Also true for pigeons.And all we can see from our window is

Occult slaverys fruit. Butwhos there?Poesy itself is of no use. Tis but our blundering

That grants her, from time to time, the right to copulate.

Punched straight in the face: nose then

Bleeding copiously as he sipped his beer.

Light bodies are faster. Hummingbird. Not true

For herbivore mammals in the savannah though.

Spaceships never to return, sea platforms burning.Former journalist revives from a coma.Buildings burning too, in their dream. Neros

Crooning at the window. Ataraxia.The executioners a different man now. Found hisPersonal Mecca in gambling. Regular lifestyle otherwise.

Factories at night. Rotary presses. His picture

On front pages. Hes napping in his wicker chair.The sofas damaged by claws. The retired mans plan

Is to kill the Siamese cat, but happy ending instead.

Dharma falls through in all possible scenarios.

And books? No recovery from their dreams.

Undead. Must go now. Farewell everybody,Aurora Leighs back with a vengeance.

Lassus

A Northerner turned into Southerner,

A traveller who couldnt speak a proper

Language, having bartered his mother

Tongue for the robes of the Gonzagas:

Roland, Orlande, Orlando: Lassus.

Latin for tired. Lassus de via: tired of

Travelling: Mantua, Milan, Naples, Rome.

Then back to Antwerpand Munich, being

His final abode. Lasso: unhappy and thats

Italian. Thats also why he scored such sad

Madrigals: or maybe it was just hypochondria,

As diagnosed by his physician, Herr Mermann.

But chronicles once had him performing

Pantaloon, at the wedding of Prince

Wilhelm of Bavaria to Renate of Lorraine,

1562. Or was it 68? Did their guests enjoy it?

He didnt care, he just had that special flair

For words: puns, double entendre & so on.

But it really was his music that played on

Words, their meaning transfixed with beauty:

Also true is that he couldnt care less

About meaning: life was just meaningless

To his trained ear. We read from the inner

Sleeve of a recording of his Prophetiae

Sibyllarum chromatico more confectae

(Printed posthumouslyMunich 1600)

That he broke the boundaries of modalism.

Could well be. However by that time the man

Was already dead and gone.A Freer Form

Of beauty? Got sick of it.

Should try with a penknife,

or you could have this

reaction, ever wished

ever desired

Well, throbbing gristles just todays reaction,

(Cant you hear me screaming, wrapped up in foam

rubber, cant you hear screams?)

My packaging,

A freer form.

Or is it silence?

Missing pieces are so patent that I could break

(Your voice, cant hear it.)

And my life, shaped into life, which is a lifes

life, in itself:

tap dripping

and a shrill sound from the other room

(Of spoons falling, of dishes

breaking).

My fingernails, broken. My ears, bleeding.

Spitting good sense wont mend them back.

Soundtrackeverythings flowing

and isnt it the sound that God

makes when everything breaks

down?

My words,

Evil oneshad to

Stab them to death.

On the Venerina by Clemente Susini (circa 1790)

But sometimes we dont know ourselves,

Or maybe its not us being ourselves anymore

When the mechanism is stark naked:

Frightened, fitted into an inappropriate

Cavity, tongues numb, stuck to palate:

Glimpses of trachea lungs heart liver

Stomach kidney spleen gall-bladders

Ovaries womb and within ita foetus:Tongues dumb, estranged, probes the

Intimacy of the torso as if it were another

Tongue, unspoken, which we are offered,

And isinside that alien bodydead.

Deflowered. Vertigo makes us stumble.The Poet from His Sickbed

The bosoms full of skylarks, it has a melody

Of its own, caged in gold, hence television is a replicaOf hours, it lies, next to bed, murmuring quicksilver,As it was one of the seemingly meaningless words dear

And sinister to us. Oh my head! Oh my toes as well!A plethora of voices butwhere is the true one,When alls ambiguity? Is it all turning into ambiguity?

We dont know. Our traces are paved with gold,

The weight of these days is lighter than a feather.But where is the true one, when alls one?

Love, let us then be the pious ones, when ones indeedThe one that shall redeem, no self-esteem when

There are no traces left. Andas for ashesforget Them. Urns are turning into urge. More feathers from

Our pillow, we weep. Is that the melody? Nor

Is it clear when it disappears. Please, no verse.

But the crys one of joy, our desperations not

The butchers: we outlived the slaughter, whatever

That would mean. The seers still doing well as we,Couched in moderateness, scratch our ego. Lost in mare magnum.Morals after all are big business. Sciences just a melody.Vice versa either. Our zeal is concealed. No sleep: its clear

We dont suffer anymore. Oh my head. The thought is one Of suffering though. And we are sick: alls one once again. Pain

Is just pasture for fools. Nurturing aspirationsgood manure

For the future. Tongue. Nows your turn. My mouth doth burn. As a desert, it surely deserves better. Then the melody. A chant That goes like we, we, webut how long do we occur? Nerves?They seem all right. We once again lost in the bigger sea.FailureWe dreamt of the hands that moulded all those trees

In the alleywayall those suspects we attached to

Our dreams, like a love ineffective, or simply a love

Without a reasonable design.

After all, what is Cosmos to our ears? Is it a clear

Cut on tribulations? Nay its not. Its not when you

Ask for a few liberalities, like when you hide your

Miniature gods far beyond any reasonable design.

And what for? Is it like the hands we dreamt of? Forget

It, once you got it. Is it more like me, or them, or what

Else? No, it just scares you with no tears. Nobody

Really cares. And so what? Fear of the void.

Push em away, push me away, for we have no despair.

Let the whole void then recoil, have we mentioned

A revolution? Of hands together, or was it just

On the you side? We once dreamt of hands

And alleyways, sunsets on every river we ever met,

Keeping good company with birds brides gods and

Cars, fumbling for the right appearance, isnt it

Clear enough weve been living in a tough age?

Projectedwe bird-liketwilights on the other side

Of the bed or it is that I just rejected every nod.

They came ashore on a summer day, I was led astray.

Spaniards. Conquistadores. But you first.

Yeah, me. I dreamt of raincoats, dragged by the streamAnd my eyes and nose were streaming too and my mind

Was floating as the city clock stroke five. To the mind

We were all hybrids. Then bats.

And trees were beautiful, in a way. That day. But bye

For now. Are you on the them side? When Ill die

Guess I wont deny my last ten minutes. Cigarettes.

Want war? Yeah. I think Ill walk away.

Crucified chimpanzees. They face death with round

Eyes. They do not fear machineries. Drills are twirling

Around my fingers but these arent my hands. Iguanas

On the strand. Gloves forced the mouth to open.

And round is the moon. Do not laugh at us. Rivers are

A sign of benevolence, their bed preserves treasures.

A golden Virgin. Oh Mary, mother of monkeys,

Why, your trees are shaking in the wind!

Disenchanted, our hands are moulding propagandas

For these windy cities, enflamed too No love though.

They seem to pray in silence. But what winds howling

With predestination? Neon lights.

Then this quietness. Few tourists on the shore. Evidence

For prosecution: the night has washed away its remains.

Machineries are off and us And this havoc of a revolution?

Pyrexia. In a dream, rivers are dripping:

Nobodys here anymore. Sheets all over furniture mirrors

Armchair sofa table. Why is it so cold a failure? Big plans

Are collapsing. We play the mysterious music. Mysterious

Chords that disclose the other entrance.

Head

Head is when your plan

Doesnt mingle with reaction,

And you move suspiciously,

Letting others know what youre at:

Dead end again. Heads a different

Individual. We know it all, but dont

Confessthere should be some

Kind of truth out of here. Street

Signs are announcing it everywhere.

But were forced to write this, for the sake

Of it. Head. Its when things

Slowly wrinkle into the fire of

An unrevealed emotion. Pictures on fire.

The worlds on fire. We cannot distinguish

Its borders.

And youwhere were you when

Reward was in your head? Did you

Notice that? Or were you simply one

Of them? Your trembling hands betray

You. My hands are shaking. I wont

Speak about it anymore, I promise.

Because its just head that makes us

Believe in the existence of pronouns.

Sadness

Where there is sadness

You can guess doors slamming,

Off-stage swearing,

Overdubbed slapsProps of a play in which you

Act as the witness,

Letting sadness slide into you

Like it were part of the script.

Its your mother, its your

Father. Its your worn-out

Face that you wear like an old

Pair of shoes, soaking wet

In the rain of your tears.

Setting is usually a second-rate

Motel that has sprung out of

Nowhere. Youve never been

So alone says the voice-over.

ContortionistLike an ancient Christian martyr he stands

In front of the sceptic crowd, spreadingThe Verb of the twisted body. Then back

To his cubic container, where we are invited For tea. Butalasno room for dogmatic doubt.

His disciples: mongoloids with coloured balloons,Clowns, paraplegics. They have got faith:

One day they shall reach the Promised LandAnd their body shall be freed from rigidity. Space is devil at work. Behold false prophecy.

Contortionists bones are sometimes kept

As a remedy for agoraphobia and the solitudeThat goes with it. At night, trying to compile

His hagiography: minds haunted by odours likeElephant dung, caramel, popcorn, sawdust.Tower

Theres a tower in Tbingen

Where I wanna linger

And measure my pace

There, yeah, like it wereMy own place, or sometimes

Its just a blurred space

And if you drive too slowYoull leave no trace: enoughWatching stuff collapse

In the rough wind,

And all the worlds a banderol,

We stand still, nothing really riles

Us, world whirls as the rumble

Fades into petals.

And its a feast of harsh bread

When a northern lilts in the head

To me again, in the bones of

Where I belong, yeah, and yet

All shells are asylums, let

The naked body resurrect

And make myself mine

For a second time:

Blackened, foreign, soaking

Wet, is this the role you want

Me to act?

Answer-like, car lights pour

In the twilight.

Sober hills to protect travel.

Wreck

Muted headphones

No loud cry from there,

Just a faraway humming

That reminds us of mist.

Cargo. Gone astray.

Its raining Morse code;

Signals give us shivers.

Bare boughs tips tapping

On the portholewhile

The backyards sinking

In milk.ColdThe cold must be at an end. What else?Desires are flailing around like motorcadesOn a motorway. Nevertheless they are

Dreams. Fulfil them as the cold renounces

Its claim. Shaped into a rope

On a Sunday morning, a whiteness

Of intent, few dazzling words that sound

Like a horoscope. And then you cope

With your streets of old again.A mother at the window, everything

In its shape for a second time. Beginnings at An end. Does it taste good? Please tell me.Traffic lights in the dim light, you and your

Early morning feel. Coffee stains the ceiling And the sky too. Fractured, they crackle.But there should be a book you havent read

Yet, the one to reveal it all. What you and

Your days were made of. O father.

My only surviving child, my look-alike.

Movement

Movement is a frail occurrence

To everymans existence

And the poets here to testify

The less than minimal variance

Of sound smell touch distance:

Fingerprints are to him of more

Relevance than, say, syllables

Rhymes metaphors chiasmsAs far as movement can be divided Into expectancy earning delusion.

But things vary greatly if you ownA car a dog new clothes a credit

Card or if sharing same beliefs

With some of the aforementioned.

No Buddha will ever escape thisStatement. Since movement

Is perpetual, its virtues will be

Those of every other living being,Except for the literary characters

The poets not concerned with.

Thats why poetry should always

Move to tears. Bambi. Karenina.I disfigured my last verses

With this razor blade.

Marvellous Catastrophes

From our ivory tower:Were the witnesses

Of our self-degradation:

Comradesthey may

Follow, or they may not.

Nor is our position

Wholly clear: are we

On their side? And, by the

Way, whose side are they?

Decisionswont take a longTime. We usually decide to

Compromise. So we do not bury,

We simply sow. Some kind of

Paradise wont be denied,

Even to parasites. Witnesses,

We are. No part in this drama.

The tower seems solid.

Chunks of ceiling are falling

Down, but theres nothing

To be worried about.

Two Poets

The first man loosens his tie:

Always fragments of past lovers

Were staircases to the brain,

Ironwork and spiralAnd marriage again: eldest son

In the old picture. Silver-framed.

These last sequences were also taped

By a friend of his. Cant remember nameBut its very easy when youre young

To see reality for a second time.

Nows time for sunglasses.

And one more fragment:

We see the other poet sittingIn his favourite wicker chairlike an

Old Bluebeard amongst orchidsIn the house of the dead wives:No detective of the mind has ever seized

Him. And never will. You feel

Kind of numb at this: spiral has hadIts due course, backwards once again.From the gratings in the pavement

The hair of the dead is sprouting.Condominium

I live in short sentencessimple present,

Most of the times: days pass, I lean out

Of a window, I watch passers-by. Besides,

Tomatoes on the balcony silently grow.

I am unattendedI greet strangers, they

Dont know me, tolerate the effort as it is

Part of their own existence. Therefore

I appeartrue to my inner corein their

Assumptionsilhouette of myself.

Lights are on. Half past six. Young

Girlwalking her terrier. Quarter to

Seven. Vendorback for dinner. Nine oh-five. Butchers wifelocking

Door. Half past eleven. Electrician

Lights turn off.

Their simple names disclose Mysterious spaces. But the distant object Of my affection is this same place. Only, why is memory so weak? Is it Weakened by indolence? Do I talk About myself? My vocabulary is just What I am now. Dumb. From now on

Im not someone elses expectation anymore. Wind Machine

We whisper each other

Scraps of sense-

Less remorse

Secretly groping

For the humming of beauty,

Keeps usoh so

Separate

Entwined

Yet so frigid

That could crack.

The whole apparatus is

Just a love poem about loveCeaselessly repeating, a love

Poem of guts and bowels

Ceaselessly insofar as there are two

Of us.

But this time its only me here

Swept away by my misconception

(Props: a door slamming).

Cupboard

This is my own one-man

Show. Be my guest. But first

Bear in mind:

I am the rude stable-boy

Whispering cruelty to your

Cultured ear

I am cruel for the sake of words,

But words in this case wont do

You any harm:

I am sitting quietly by your bedside.

The ghost of Joseph Merrick. Hear me

Wheezing in the dark: I know

Youre looking for tales that could

Break your heart. That is poetry,

In the nude:

So Ill be an orphan for a while

Just the time to discover that mums

Not dead.

You see, such are the sorry-ass

Subterfuges a poet needs. Thenwhat else

Are we here for?

Yes. Ill be a cannibal, a head hunter

Whos been stalking you to this

Dirty alley.

Sounds a bit sick? Well, my soul

Is sound, but its not one with

My flesh and bones anymore.

Poetry doesnt need us. We dont

Deserve it. Sometimes we may

Lure it into the most secret abodes

Of the mind. But this time

Skeletons are all out of the cupboard,

Out of reach, grinning at us.

We All Have Imaginary Fiends That Tell Us What to Do

(Notes for a Russian Novel)

And blessed with

Endless consideration,

Endless considerationEven if theres none

And snow cries in my

Fist, as I slouch in slow

Circles. At a library

Im crying from all the

Books Ive read.

Full stop where once

Was my head, oh wellMy head!

And its endless

Endless, all is

Crying and all is

Silent, wrappingAround my finger

As I turn the pages.

And blessed is the woman

Who messed around

With the porter

Out of a barroom

And all figures are weak then.

Also, the wind is blowing

From a bottle.

Waitress

Where was your heart when you needed it most,

Was it a ghost, wishy-washy faced, numb

Oh I see: time fattened up buttock, breasts,

Cheeks, chin, ankles: now that is reality to me

Coming back from ages, just like a faraway

Glimmer of some girl I fanciedrestedIn the air, stuck into the music:

And by the way, am I still worth a quickie?

Every stitch mended, to what used to be

Our thing, remember it well? (wellI do)

Used to tickle both hearts with prying fingers

Andcall it what you willyou still remain

A slut, bitchto me and to the rest of me, oh such

Sweet music, bitch. Youre not beautiful.

You never were. But who really cares

Now that youve grown fatter, maybe wiser.

Mind-candy of my memory. By the wayI never

Fancied you to be you. I much preferred

My fancys shadow. Look closer:

Im still at it. Still it goes, on and on.

Where are you nowno its not spots

That make you less attractive, you better

Believe me now that youve summedit up: your lifes different. Er, no its not.

This is the hour when no one is around,

When all things grow older. I suspect

The wrinkles to come in the way

You grin. But no one sees us.

Blind Narcissus

I drowned in memories once again:Then its 1989 for a second time

And these are the names of the girls

I had sex with: better not (most

Of them I just fancied. Some I

Never met. The rest didnt exist).

As usual, memories mirror just what

I want to see, thats why the past

Closely resembles me. The present is

Blind, instead. Nightfall. Seven p.m.,

I light the last cigarette of a lost age.

And love wasnt really the end

Of it all. Nor what remains, now:

My dead swollen body floats

On the surface of my thoughts:

By the wayhave I ever loved?

Still, I hold the warm hope

That new findings in entomologyWill rescue my name. Meanwhile

Bury my heart in the late eighties.What the Skeleton Told Me

Skeleton appeared to me with

A desperate grin. No lips, no gums.

That could be a reason for desperation.

Otherwise he made no fuss, he

Wore a khaki outfit, a crushed helmet,

Eye-sockets under it staring the void.

Nope. Then one orbit was irregularly

Enlarged, possibly traumatic,

Like it had seen too much of this

Life.

He started like I fell down

At Omaha beach, one amongst

The others, nothing spectacular

After all. Just average.

But I was waiting for the epiphany.

I just knew there was one.

I was wrong. Nothing spectacular.

So, what else do you expect from

Lifeas a whole, I mean.

Nothing spectacular I admitted.

Its like when youre forty-five

And youre simply dying. Cancer.

Thats it. Makes no difference to me.

Big disappointment if youre into

Tragedy. Anyway,

How came you were dying?

Just how Your prostate, wasnt it?

Too much of that can wear off the

Whole mechanism. Wrong usage.

Bad, bad boy

But nobody ever really dies of it.

Then he asked me for a cigarette.

I had none.

I wouldnt mind offering you

One of those, but life has made

Them unsuitable for the living.

Cant smoke the rot off them.

You see, me too I do my living:

A skeleton wife, skeleton children,

Skeleton barbecue, skeleton stuff.

Death doesnt mean a thing when youre

Dead. You can get as many skeleton

Chicks as you want. Its up to you.

Is that too much of a bony perspective?

Jeez, what are you dying for, then?

Think: do they all care about you? Do you

Really believe you will stay hereForever? I am the fuckin truth, remember

That.

I just hung around his words, that sermon

Made me sick with its nothingness.

Its not cancer that spoils your life,

Not that beast, however.

There was a parcel coming out of his left

Pocket. Never had the chance to know

What was on the inside.

Poor fucker. My fellow. The answer then:

Im dying for the ignorance of it, you should

Know that, no more possibilities,

For things possibly dont move backwards:

If you missed the option to screw the first girl

You ever fancied, Im so sorry,

But no repayment.

Thats why they invented sadness.

Who are you referring to with they?

Poets, my friend. Poets. Isnt it

Romance the juice of existence?

When I was comatose, lying on the

Strand, I had the experience of a

Crab treading on my body,

And therefore I was. Through that small

Crustacean I existed for a little while.

Its like when you go shopping

Or you collect your laundry, basically.

Or cancer. That sinister declination

Of mine. Life itself, if you dare to

Admit it.

But the skeleton was too old for riddles.

He was lazing in the sun, in a place

Where nobody ever went to look for

His corpse. Missed in action.

But then he appeared to me in a dream.

What kind of dream? Usual dream.

Blind Date

Enamelled in that pivotal progressionThe manaw, that wondrous

Machine, that

Almighty little ersatz angel,Aw!and now the woman, the navel-seamstress,

She requires

That sort of absolute knack

That he actually

Has not,

But

Simply put

In capitalsWe reeled away by unsuspected hands,

Yet do we forget we speak not

In succession,

Do we?

We lost, we unconfessed,

Even denied of the void,

It is us that once, loudly,

In a drunken digression

Puked behind the counter,

Or, in a quieter way, he

Sat sedated

On a blind date

But the maiden was surely elated

And the place, same

Caf, no chance

Of being wiser with expression,

She just paused, then started

Likehellow...Nervously cracking her knuckles

Like it was she that stole that

Lurid glance, then

Stripped bare naked, both

Would look like burnt-out herons,

He more crane-like thoughAnd her voice a drone

And the squeaking of gristle

And all those bones below

Went like

Hellow, hellow, hellow...The Anatomical Theatre

Do not disappear, till youve had enough of me

And my days of dusk, O year! For I feel the marvel

Of it, even if the final fulfilment is to me concealed.Words penned at dawn, the old clock winds itself

Up to an untimely halt: the studys sinking, imbued

In thick morning light. Roses writhe in slow motion

As the body lies dissected. We get this sense of

Suspended awkwardness, closer to roses scent.But then again bacteria are far more effective:Thats when you dont live anymore, for your

Happiness is of this world no more, O soul, andDo not fear the flesh, best is the voyage itself

While hands are groping for the skull, definitely

The ultimate baroque prop, the appropriate oneFor gloomy settings. Curtains reveal the leak.

ThemMe? Just a trooper, in a way. Recruited by them. And them? Most secret government institution.

My position? Im a philosopher a ventriloquist

A professional voyeur. Better said: connoisseur.And whence this grandiloquence of mine, then? Please: watch me now parade along the driveway:Isnt it just nice from time to time to take leave

From anonymity and enjoy a little popularity?

True, you dont know me. But popularity afterAll is a state of mind: dont tell it cause I perceiveWhat youre at. I perceive every thought of yours,By the way. Fact is I inspect every aspect of existence.

Is there a point to all this? Sure it is, but so hush-hush

They havent felt compelled to let me know about it.No tricks however. Fair play. Guaranteed. Utmost liberty.I am the fucking free man of the 21st century. Thats all. Just cant lie to someone when hes free. And freedoms

Every talk I talk. Guess I got the gift of the tongues.No preaching though. Simply watching, taking notes.

I am the true compiler of the secret code of reality.

And they really love it. I love it too with a twist of sick

Delight. Am I perhaps turning into a right pervert? Couldnt be. But hows that sometimes at night I feel Kind of naked? Like in a dream I hear them mockingMe. Hey! Is this the real me? Is this their real reason? Why, they nail me with their nonchalance. Short circuit.Still LifeIt slivers under pearly fingernails, broken

Glass still reflects the portrait: grips turning Into purple, like a sunset in your left hand.Right hand embalmed in quietness instead.Just a chance winter journey, your hair. Years Ago. I guess you just happened to be there.

Gurgling in the shade of a different sceneA radiator. In the other room televisionsChattering of amoebae protozoa saline:I think of your contact lenses, floating in Solution, cleansed to oblivion by artificial

Tears so you dont need to weep anymore.

Pains just a chemical reaction.

Its formula quite easy to synthesise. I

Recall it used to rain a lot that winter. Now gutters are all dry. Its almost spring.Late afternoon. As I lean out of the window

Lead-laden laundrys flapping to my nostrils.Windows a Quiet Place to Live AtJust sitting there. Beyond that landscape.

And beyond me, theres the one whos

Writing this: wisterias blooming in

A spasm. Fingers. Mantis-like, rampant.

Pen laid on the stained carpetwindowsWatching us with its compound eyes. Guests,Theyre dozing in slimy climate: ventilators Spinning backwards. My complexion, transparent.

Back from death, onto the sofa. Return

Altered traits. Reverse speech: guests.

Well mannered, though. Tapestrys

Swarming with insects. He usually writes

Of landscapes, out of old postcards. Exotic

Places he would never see. There are

Lovers in them (years after they would throw

Their secret in each others face) but

What are they doing, right now? And

What about all those canvases? Ashen.

Paint leaked out of them. As I was leaning

Out of the window, my head fell down.

In Every Dream Home A Heartache

In order to write better poems

I should at least have a shave;

But the followings a filler, clearly.

Scene is: TV. Babbling nonsense.Then myselflost in marginalia

Once again. Thats all.

If you suspect the usual elegy

Youll probably be disappointed:

No epiphany this time.

Poor tricks instead.AnywayI wont cheat.

Not anymore. However.

Still I must be frank with you,

For devotees deserve fair play

(Or maybe youre just a newbie.

In that case I guess you should

Ask for enrolment first).

At this point there is no need

To proceed further:

Meaning is usually unkind

With our expectations.

So, in the end, whats the title

Got to do with this? Nothing,

I suppose. Truth is, Im too lazy

To have it changed. Better leave it.

Its a good one though, having

Borrowed it from an old song.

Ex-machina

[scenery 1]

In a chemistry of chromium chimneys serpentinesPurple-striped combustions. The whole of it filteredThrough a crystal calyx160ft high.

[scenery 2]

Birds eye view: allotments shaped into curious

Geometriesgreen, mallow. At the junction of lines

With curvesan egg, hyper-realistic, 300:1 scale.

[scenery 3]

Plain surface (either table or board) inhabited

By miniature fountains & other aquatic choreographies.

Timer-synchronizednevertheless silent.

[scenery 4]

Residential area. Pavilions on the inside of an English

Garden. Mega-screen. Disposition of buildings exactly

Reproduces the human circulatory system.

[scenery 1]

Wind through crystal to create this hardly perceivable

Continuum. Intermittence of lights. Far away.

Counterpoint, with greater vehemence.

[scenery 5]

Gear system, driving belts plus an hydraulic joint, diesel

Engine-propelledmidair above the surface of an artificial

Lake. Its bulk size however makes it unusable.

[scenery 4]Plexiglas canals linking various blocks start to pulsate.

Dream photograms. Flux running through tubes comes

Ochre-colouredlight filters through with bizarre allure.

[scenery 1]Reduction to a state of quietness. Picture-like.

[scenery 5]

Thunder makes the flock of ducks fly away. Some minute

More and the engines off. Lakes back to initial state.

Sequence to be repeated every half hour. Punctual.

[scenery 1]

Picture turns sepia. It wrinkles. Like it was exposed to a source of heat.

[scenery 3]

And at midnight a burst of fireworks interposes!

[scenery 2, 4, 5]

They seem to be very closely linked one to each other: footpaths.

Sunset fuses them into a golden light. We cannot distinguish

Their exact margins. The ducks slumbering among the constructions.

Moreover, frequent apparitions of angels. What do they want From us? And, above all: do they, in a way, pertain to us? They seem to summon.

Reading

Try forgetting about what youve just read.

Looks like there was nothing before this.

But something has clearly remained. Im not

Referring to anything you could have read

Or thought of having readso far. No.

This isnt about mere wordsin any case.

Consider that you can read beyond them, too,

There are men and women in there:

Its like when you say sorry, actually not

Meaning it. Or when you write happy

On a birthday card, already knowing that

Happiness has fled somewhere else.

Same here. It has been deemed

Superfluous to introduce every statement

With however: howeverby now

You should have suspected

This hesitating quality in every

Thing you have read. That why

You havent read these lines at all

They were already stitched on you.

Their half-truth will imply

Every further reading.

Beelzebub Enticed By WordsLo! humans, how I despise your logic,Poor little wretched fellows, marriedTo magic but whoring around instead

With abstruse tenets: how self-abused!Could my fingers but touch you, as I touch

Myself with thoughts of paranoia Thats why

I invented cars, so that each couple could justQuarrel in perfect abandon & solitude. Oh boy!But violences not mine, after all. You taught it

To me, eradicating my certainty of poor limbs

With no soul at all. My possession, after all.

Are these my hands, besmeared with blood?

Just watch yourself, you, lost in your traffic of

Humanity, what a precious spice to add to the

Mix! Just look! Whose legs are those, out of

A luxury store? Sure its a female of yours. I see,Your spirits are arousedlow birth rateSays it better than a million words. But I am

Enticed by your words: condom! What a luckyLittle world straight out of your pocket. Oh Jesus!

Am I your father? Not me! Forget it. Definitely

Not my cup of tea. Ive served you well, thats all.This time I wash my hands and keep messing with time. Im not scared by solitude. Words alone scare me!

I come to you as an old man, seduced by the decency

Of your words. You see me crippled? Words made me

Suffer, and thats why I am often represented as an old man:

Kiss these hands of mine, wash your blood off them. I remember an old triptych: there, St Wolfgang forcedMe to kneel and hold his Book. A word too many, my man.You were nurtured on them lies, werent you? Television!

Thats it, just same old bloody argumentation.

I was not kneeling, that day. Fake depiction. After all

What are those shotguns on your screen? Are they holy,

Are they chattering True Verb? Words are something to

Be scared of. My speech, purest contradiction.

Spade

Its heart-shaped blade buried my grandfather

And his grandfather too, each thrusts just

Sinking deeper and deeper into my genealogy:Although the knotty handle in its crookedness Shows some sympathy for the torments of the fleshThe ace hath no mercy upon us sinners, it shines

With a sharp grin of immortality and menace.

Gravediggers know it too well and stoop to its

Secret cult consisting of alcoholism and porn.

The rusty phallus fecundates the soil, giving

Life and death at its will: especially true for

Allotments and small plots. Its mentor, a weird

Thracian god who despises modern agriculture.

At rest, when all the other tools absently sleep,The spade dreams of ciphers death meteorology.Four Bad Poetry Remixes[remix n.1]

incoherent faces fracture,

the detail of effects happening

in another place and to others, buthis fingerprints were all over his faber poets:there he is, like an ultrasound snap inside the belly,

taking rubbish out of the dustbin and pasting it back into nightmare,

shadows slouch: he notices them.

features, limbs, inked with suspicious boundaries.

a wintry feel with a blood loss.

his figure is cordoned off.[remix n.2]

is a cheap gift at the years end.

meaning-making at its most distant, primal level: a blank page.

there is no meaning and you create meaningwith occasional snaps and cracks.

[remix n.3]

almost underneath the ceiling fan,noticing that, between disheveled curtains, quite often a tornado is like a twisted sphere,he writes and paints. he has a masters degree in creative writing,

plus the sickly split influence blossoming somewhere between the dirt of his toes and the chaste tears of his one-hundred-year-old spawn.

sappy similes.[remix n.4]

Im an enthusiast, overall.

but whos afraid of that?shit. shit. shit. I didnt mean it.

this blank page was last updated March 10, 2007.Stanzas

I decided to have my beliefsSecludedone from the other.

These are rooms that I own.

Behind each door, they keep on

Growing: acrylics on bare walls.

First instance, stillness: man

And woman, bodies loiter on Each others threshold. Then music From a distance, percussive, metallic:

Sour taste in your mouth.

Now, heres the suicidal chamber.

They always bring fresh flowers

For rotting, silent detonations

In the wake of a gunshot

That never comes.

Room no. 3: blind Johnny Miltons Mnemosyne mineral water. Drinking himself in and out

Of bad trips. Heres when he

Yells out after the waiter.

Going down to lower floors:

But junctures and landings

Always fail to connect their guests.

The clock strikes five, lights

Turn on automatically.

So there should be a happening,

People running up and down

The stairs, lifts are dancing

To unperceivable choreographies.

The halls soaked in mire.

We are going to stay here for

A while. Nobody knows of

Our delay. We just observe.

They think changes wont

Ever come. Perfection.

And one more room.

A translucency of catheters:

Had his stomach pumped.

Magnolias bloom at the bedside.

Ultimate synthesis.The Forbidden Chamber

I am the dead lamb that sleeps in your refrigerator.Plus, I am the stuffing inside your pillow: indeed I amThe fucking ferryman to nightmareever tried one?

There should be one of us in every home, we live

For the meaning of it: bad trip. Thats the word.

And of course theres also a key to it: your closet.

I am the wicked lamb of evil that lies refrigerated.One night youll see me heading for the microwave.Ill be crunchy crispy n tasty for guts the target:Ill be waiting for you in my scarlet velvet chamber.Im not evil for the sake of it thoughno way, man!

I am as beauteous and angelic as any other lamb.

It has something to do with your inner self, I guess.

Heres your life in closest details. We retain brutality

For later occasions: pictures of you everywhere.

And here are your favourite toys: not exactly.

I considered keeping the real ones for my purpose.

And, as you probably noticed on entering, roses scent

Very much resembles the obstinate stench of death.

Its your stomach, by the way. But thats not the point:

Your body as a whole is my secret forbidden place

And there your emotions grow, its pure chemistry.

Yet I have to add a little theatricality to the story

Otherwise it wouldnt be a story at all, you know.

I am your pillow, soaked in sweat. Is it really so?

Where was your family, when you really needed

Them? Just me. I was the man for hard times.

Also, I was solely responsible for your bad dreams.

But I think weve pushed responsibilities a long way.

We wont do each other any harm, were in here for

A change. Speaking to myself: I am the wardrobe,

I am the hanger too. I usually come in a dream

When all your greed lies sedated, death-like.

Call it passion call it ambition. But youre

Smaller than that. Projecting evil outside of it

Wont save you for good. Am I really evil?

I am the shoeshine boy, the humble pie that once

Made you puke your ego out of mediocrity. I am

The Projector. I wear this grimy cloak to scare you.

I am much of a fairytale character lost in Babylon:

Now you know what you get out of my service. And

What else from you? Ah yes, your disenchantment:

But believe in nightmares, dont believe in reality. And,

Finally, I am the crooked limb of the beggar maid:

Son, your credit card please. Be blessed for that.

Selected Canvases

I. Birch

Sleepless television

Bark sizzles

My fingertip.

II. Milk

Trembling porcelainCrumbling. Frothy valves.III. Ribs

River doubles those pillars

In a curve,

IV. Petrol Pump

Clouds saturate background

Plus swollen lamplights

V. Hillside

Dynamos useless.

Nightlywere

Oblique

VI. DoorbellLikeness scares

Me off.

VII. Tastebuds

Whole scheme but

Wrong feelingVIII. Foundry

Rules: the silence of

An old typewriter:

IX. Successful

Loitering like

A blade on a plate

X. Window Sill

They still believe/

Snail memory/

Footpath/

XI. Graze

Hillocks of

Parched watercolour.

Rinse out.

XII. Wind

Vistas wrapped

Up in hissing film;

XIII. Treasure

Mouth agape, bare

Breastsrent asunder.

XIV. Scholarly

In a whirl of

Indecency|secret commitment.XV. BleedMiniature Trotsky.

Blue stain. Cocaine.

XVI. Halves

Honeycombs dream

Of quality

XVII. Torch

Truth had them

Missing heads:

XVIII. Nude

Distances.

Pink, as a matter of

Fact.

XIX. Crippled

Gave her|a

Daughtercrushed

Chrysalis

XX. Devils

Packagings the trick.

His Living In the Nude

Are they just like any other individuals?

Do they together form the usual crowd?

He tolerates the answers. At night the

Escapade through barren fields has him

In the guise of a lunatic: clothes entangled

In the barbed wire. Through it an indigo

Moons vaguely shining. Dogs are howling.Down in the pond theres a silver crayfish.Has he been a worthy man? Cant say a word About himself: no identity without pockets.And identitys the big border. Once crossed

You dont need to be one any more. Crayfish. Judgment will linger forever. Meanwhile

The other moon surfaces with the ancient smile: She has deciphered the jargon to the marrow. Will she love all this? Or underrate the effort?

Is there a deserter? Be it so, which effort then?Renounces dont go with it. A drowned NarcissusOnce again. Cranes are screeching, skys screeching

Too. The pond crumples to a blue kernel.

Box of Air There are forms that go well with stories

And stories and form I will in turn visit.The maidens in my dreams are playing:

A red ball rolls across the street.

What if the ball then turns into a balloon

That reads hello, why you here?

Well, theyre actually playing archlutes:

Its a tune of old and its no reverie.

Perhaps its form. I pass through it.

However, if youre flummoxed by Stories, youll die to know how it all Ends. In factloops are those maidens!You know, stories may come stories may

Go. But the maidens will keep on playing.And this holes endless when its form:Is it just a hole youre interested inOr is it the story that runs around it?

With an archlute: wombs the story.

Only, you cant peek through it:

Trimmed with lacethe maidens.On a Painting by Unknown (circa 1530)

, I argued.You were then silent

And my bones

Ached.

Black windows

The eyes that spreadSuch pity

On me.

That was a mask,

It had an untrue

Meaning, and that wasWhen I started screaming

Very, very cruel.

And its just a trophy,Some unnatural beast

Hanging on your wall.Unfocussed

(i)

Efforts at an end. Streets.

You mull over the other way

To go blindbrotherhood is

By now a joke. Dont share

Same features anymore. Lights are

Blurring the pain away though.

Next would be a close encounter,

On your intimate way to the tunnel:

Sometimes people dont understand

Contretemps, and all turns out

Unfocussed, in an evil kind of way.

But theyre silent now. Just strolling

Round the station. You head for

A cup of coffee, a sandwich, a pitiful

Excuse to call her out of this grimy

Town. Blank again. Deafening. Cant

Hear a thing.

(ii)

But time sometimes is fairer than

We might think. Thats why we

Are used to losing our personal

Belongings, like for example

Umbrellas, copybooks, maps:

They dont belong to us anymore.

In due time theyll come back

Good-natured, obedient.

So the effort by now should be

Clear. But you prefer to maybe

Write it down, so you wont miss

The finale. Otherwise spectacular.

But what was the reason to all this,

After all? Dusking. This is a point.

Keep shaving thin slices off

Reality. The coffee maid I mean.

(iii)

Ages, we cant touch them. Newspapers: