Mimeioigraphe

Falls to pieces
trepaning air,
prior to falling:
ecx-static.

Circulabrant motion
it breaks teeth,
muscle and jaw,
thermofaxes them
to the end of the world.

No fancy business
but puncture, pressure,
acutepressure,
nimbling fingers,
flattening nails.

Blood Theme

Blood themed
seduction scene:
trapdoor, tape, measurine.
Afterward, go down Palmer Court
shambling.

Erase or Rewind

Existe_

Everest

[ ]

is everywhere.


North [ ] West [ ] south [ ] East [ ]


Tarnished perma-opal,
multi transparent reveverberation,
frost icy blast,


A ravine:
23,320
12,000 3,000
980.
5,300 17,100 13,800
[26]

Detritus:
maCh / log / om / nu


Everest,
from outer space:
[ ]

Useless Beauty

Futile, Inutile
tampered as you gaze:
because, you gaze.

Completely; integrated.
Compellingly; touchable.
Semper at your disposal;
.recombinable.

Redyelloqpurplenorange
amaranth chlorine – treated,
sated by technicolor,
and a bone.

The Country of Peaceful Death

Scarring sunlight gleams and bulging
acrid grapes, sweating marrow,
sheen ungodly and profusely
in the country of peaceful death.

My new motor-powered hearse
covers the distance, hillside town
to smokestacks - powdery red.
An uncanny, potent aroma of combustion,
yet the green outside ages in dirt.

Since times of old the cypress
enjoyed the company of youths
once their mothers could no more:
he now stretches up like a flesh beacon
at Three Corners, grasping a milestone.

The Right Notes

As the funeral carriage
grinds to a halt,
gnarled by constraints
every bone shatters:
miserable fall of bodies
toward granite beds,
asperities of lower
piano strings, straws
pulled at random.

All previously held truisms collate,
held together by sheen vapours a
opaline white substance, transmuted
humus of old age, runs profusely
all the way down, into every crevice.

Ionosfere

Sunchimed.

Not as in nature,
but rather, vertical:
vertically disabled,
vertically crushed.

Unwillingly
experiencing different flight,
as described in
the many voices in polvo
pullulating our stairways.

From daze to daze,
comes your turn to experience
the crushing pressure
pullulating your stairways.

Planes

Duvet

Eyes wide open when
skulls and crossbone clad
you, barely filled hoody, dream
of Hinterland factory smoke:
rather, reap all pleasures of illness,
head tucked under your duvet
like a cosy caped Palermitan monk,
fitting shroud for birthing a new self,
some other day.

Acute, intruding, rush
power lines obstruct view,
fiery they scorch a somewhere
you never knew you had,
curdle your brain at brow's height.
If that fever runs higher
(thirty-eight degrees or more),
if Sunday's thoughts freefall
(thirty-eight feet or higher):
eyes wide open, skulls
and crossbone clad monk.

Born

White
is new pink,

soon
to be

The Cræture that Swallows

John and Allison:
Apollo and Dyonisus -
Mæt and Greed.

Into the World,
outwith? handfuls of sludge.

You
establish a
Sextant;
to establish a
System?

Rewrite

Today,
instead of poems,
I ran and chewed a bite
off a philosopher's carcass.
Moist.

Sixteen Year Old Revenant

Ricket,
living in spite.
So strained are your crosses,
there is a strangely fine line
in you.

Datura

Stretches
uncalled, unloved
by them shiver hedges;
her sadist, sordid flowering
unfazed.

Double Prognosis

The self,
What does it hate - the self.
If within or without
the human machine, none can say.

The ultimate aim is
perception of self - perception
of self comes
in three distinct flavours:
conscience,
consciousness,
the curious sensation akin to bitterness at the corner of a tired, teary eye a few minutes before waking up to an array of industrial sunlight affectionately cursing your sickly forehead.

I heard you were writhing
and thrashing around, like
the decapitated vermin does, in
soaked sheets a few nights
ago – left a fingernail on the
stainless steel rail as the nurse,
circumspect, took hold of
your breast – so, why not
show me the same regard?

We are there for each other.
A new shiny cross on my back,
fresh breeze down your throat.

Cunning Heartshaped Translucent Ivyleaf

Callo(w)us
experiment in
Mass Appeal, writing
with an edge,

moving aside
arms and legs,
still sprawled
a christening Crimsoness(ence).

Referee
of the effort
I put in,
handy for
scraping clean the
bathtub shoulder.

Single Wor(l)d Essay

Jeri(atri)cho walls co(straint)me down,
impe(jo)rative to
comply(cate simple lives).

Tempor(t)al matters
prod(uce) me to
move for(East)ward

Shojo(jo) of a
stran(Al)ge(ri) Japanese
extra(di)ction,
She(ltering) holds
grasp(e)s

As if I(ntention) was
not the(reason to be the)re,
Sur(plus)realism at its b(as)est.

Gaia, Gorged

Enitharmon, Urizen.
Cells
that remain deliberately
suspended
over ash – heads,
humanity;
they beckon like nothing
else, final heirs
of a deflated
third stone from the cold.

Still Around

Somewhere Hinterland
far away playground,
deluge or defend
spring and fontanelle:

accepted degrees,
expected aversion,
grafting frowns
like crafting days.

Somewhere Someland
far away slyground,
new rules of thumb or
mistakes, suspected:

still keeps together
Labello, balm breath,
both slide better than
lipstick in the long run.

Family '89

I pull you aside,
a passer-by
off a crowd and:
let's make family.

Two hundred Euro
cluttering pans
in our shared sink,
a veritable valley.

I'm just kidding,
I'm just messing
around with you;
any chance I get.

Soon I can't look
at your frowns, without
wishing to be
behind your shoulder.

There sure are
instances when
masochism
serves its cause.

Delight

Cherry tree graveyard, we have
no less than a soul, doll
drone
repose
riposte,
interred down
how? – how many
fathoms dig down?

It does not wait for long
contradictory in none,
gassy mist column from a schoolgirl's frothy
mouth by the contradict bus stop
looking at you, there only for you
spreading black ice to you.

To parasite
a painting, or
paper or flower
arrangement or
something deliciously baked,
festering in 'till
your pancreas, sugary, comes.

October

Your stale scholarship
Grows tired mid- November;
You know no better.

Turn, theist space
uncontamiOCTOBER innated
pure ideal, modernisthe
materims
dominanically;
Nk skate – arta tabula, read
as: a blaasa, elationshian.
Inextricable, indignant context
minima forms, thinking med – the
phenobody, yours;
Laderartists, I propose painting
if we were to deeures activelyanisms, for
Whiteighting in mind.

Staarship Ged – Mid;
Nove tired Mcholarsh
Ys hip growr.

Old Man

Even in my basest instances of
perverted abstinence I must pity his
trite slant of impotence, the thrifty
glue all brothers and sisters are slave to.

The eye: the hand that bites
feeds and explores – in a
single digit, nails untrimmed,
the boring power of a depth drill: in
that single slant prototypes
are contained, an harrowing stretch of
paths to failure that his eye
comes in abundance, for within
that pulverizing crib sugar does not lack.

Zealous, even when dead on a living, his
crumpled hand shreds the innards of
his flannel's pockets, clawing at what
tonight he will dream of as my
thigh, whining in
contorted, humid pleasure
beside his sleeping wife.

Mizuka's Loop

Drops her gaze
Mizuka, violently indolent
holding tight a loop
between her legs and her mind's I
tense, demeaning and
ever scheming how
to be a star, or
at least, how to cut one down to her size.

In the glicine milk and honey of
her extremities, those she whispers to
at night – time, there: what
novel cross did she find?
Set on her weight like grave(l)stone
caressing the stove's black eyes
(her parents away) fixing dinner
for two, three counting her
accruing body strings of flame.

Mizuka's loop is both
loved and accursed, both
wonderful and wondering.
It approximate möbiuses
the mind and the mind's I.

Pregnant

Rumble fish twist
and you're pregnant.

Strawberry chocolate Ice -
cream watermelon,
cigarettes.
Punching holes in the
cardboard wall at night,
I'd rather wait 'till morning
to hate you.

You can't have coffee,
you can't have alcohol,
you can't Spanish step,
what kind of mother are you?
Yet, Lucky Strike before
corrected smoky blend, after sex,
(what kind of mother are you?)

Rumble fish twist
and you're pregnant,
where good things might

Surgery Central

In surgery central
is a table – its
surface plastified
plywood – I have a
patient there.
Its name: three
thousand words, the
illness – can't speak of.
Anaemic starved narrow
like these lines of sort – but
this, chance;
that, my patient;
both, my doing.

My Kitchen

The most fragile of
kitchen utensils in
my array is
the scalpel, the body
attached quivers as
if a seraph was
disapprovingly glaring
from up above.

My hand, it smells of
cheap starlet lips and
croquet burns and
the tendon, strained
by living under. My
hand envies the
flashy, smothering
heat of the electric stove,
as it can be switched at will.
The scalpel can switch too,
not quite the same.

She is the scalpel. The
mother, the aunt, the
sister, the friend, the refuse
the tired, the starlet
and the lipstick, the
hand and the tendon,
the scalpel.

Dreary, Linda

crawls to the mouth of her
bathtub, listless, demand
stay where you are
gently, useless
all hidden things not
hers;
demanding, listless.

Two words festoon
the same cornersteps,
mostly painless.
A weight, stars to be
hold, breathless
crawls to the deep end of her
bathtub, coarse hair;
not mine.

You cannot ingratiate
marble, sparkless,
a monument to your day
useless, demanding.
In a sense a joy to behold
sparse, tasteless
washed in the froth of
your day;
listless.

You Do Not Need It

To you, who have chosen to
be an angel of nothing from now on,
I ask: get off the higher ground
and swallow down the need to fly
off the walls of Billings Senior High.

You do not need it.
Much easier to shrink down 'till
a current has more will than you
do, on your best day.
Begin by denying who you are,
continue by dodging the
strength that begs you to be,
end by scratching your head against
that wall you wanted so
badly to see pass you by.

It has seen millions like you, it will
see more millions like you, millions
upon millions, moonlight in shape of
bodies just like you.
Falling sons and daughters
I consent to your demise,
repealing all my
loving care for you;
You do not need it.

Anyway, June

If we could have back that
June that was ours years ago,
icicles to mouth, white yellow
parasols and those pretty ones
by the wash, minding
my business, or so I hoped.
I am tired of
“no exposure to sunlight
from 9 am to 8 pm”
I am tired of stretches
- pathetic sandhills, skysucking
weeds even more pathetic.
Give me back a June to live,
August had its share and
all other months are gone
anyway.

When You Disconnect

When you disconnect:
in the pillow morning, at
night, in the blotting
sunlight – you practice
a strangle strategy that
is a survival strategy
as well.

You are internet,
sconnected, your body is
growing problematic
yet your problem no longer.
Re-sconnected, it's yours
again.

The constraints,
3000 words
2 – hour runtime
do not concern you
do not feed synapses
do not do.

Out there, in the novel warmth
your body is crimson coral,
your heart is the world's clam.

An Hospital's Parking Lot

Virgo, Libra, Scorpio
it's a progressive descent.
The voice of the undertow
miles from the sea, spoken
by birches and planes
in the balmy,
sickness night.

Me, you, the autumn dressed
one and the prideful one,
none of us so evil but
it came anyway.
It comes
your way, no matter what,
whirring (softly spoken) in the
breath of all that hums,
that angelic dynamo
runs its course - not under
standing, not pretending to
understand.

Not wanting to understand,
farther yet from sickness:
it's a progressive ascent.
Scorpio, Libra, Virgo

Angelus

Angela is happy. God is
good and there is no
drama to take upon her
shoulders, beside friends
and/or what is good;
amid the jungle of her delicacies
(tucked in are family pictures, one
member often to be found)
drawers that bad thing sleeps tonight.

She has sutured yesterday
successfully, and the attentive
viewer can barely discern the
feeble limp – chips of words do
still come out wrong from
time to time – scratching the tiny
wound between her front teeth,
threatening disclosure and clawing
for disclosure, as Angela gasps feeble.

She has an array – lines of
magical invisible shelves
hanging over her shoulders
so to carry those, imparted,
who know that God is good
– it is tiring, having
to drill it in yourself
day after day.
Angela is happy. God is still
good, drama is blue – faced in a
distant corner and she's right
where she is supposed to be.

What Erin Won't Say

What Erin won't say
because I'd make me break:

“Nothingness is good
but nothingness is deaf
yet not quite the same
as dead – her big incorpo
ration is pulling straws
together, somewhere by
the acute angle of a bed
and bedroom, inches from
a ledge and her incubators,
children she lined up
like in a boring movie
where an apple won't
mean an apple ever,
like the straws that tie
men's hands together
in time and in crime,
Erin was nothing but a
doubt, waiting to become
a wrecked interstate fault.”

Modena II

There is a condom that
is not a condom – it sets
sail at the slightest gale -
over my city's phallus,
drilling God's heavens,
soaking water and erect.
When did my Second Mother
get one, tho? I have been far from
her womb (that one is true)
much too long, and without
my funny motions it's all
twistles and tangles to her.

Feminism, unconsciously, has
done its work upon the
chauvinist forms of my city – and
it was a man, no less – except
if you walked by the pavements
and arches, you'd know
my city never began to be
a man in the first place.

The Brittle Tool

An howling blast shatters
the windowpanes of my
decrepit, infimous nest
when I hold in my hand,
tremulous, that siphon of hate
so violent and grave – reed
that cuts my dry lips in
caverns and chasms of lunar
proportions, fingernails that
must splinter at every second,
an alliteration for you:
castana chiara scolopendra
I express therefore I am
not a thing, a liquid with
no orgasm behind it to speak of.

The Datura that Grows in My Backyard

Her seat is by the north
eastern windowpane – my
favourite, where the morning
bitter aftertaste and chill don't
hurt nearly as bad – and a glass of
milk balancing her weary head,
eyes already closing in.
It works for some, old
fables told me; I will have
lonely peace for a while.

I have penned twentysix pages
since then – below average, no sides
and no development whatsoever, my
hand really could use a muse, or
a Cassandra at least – yet still
there she is, fast asleep, dreaming
of me being in her dreams.
But rose coloured is all that matters
to me, so I don't want to know that.

The Harrow

I.

Curled upon a framed hill, by an oily shore
not to know, not to explore, the trapped
into their heirloom desperation, upon me
the depth creatures of loss scuttle furtive
digesting rust and oxide of centuries old.
I not understand the gravity of my actions, I,
I am thoroughly flayed by the fiery current,
channeller of that which is irretrievable;
harrow down the steel frame slopes
presaged by the small, heartless Morningstar
all across, to its scalding polar opposite.
I want nothing more than be not,
farewell to this brief nightmare
shaking and grinding at its own loss.

II.

This twilight saved in a red shoebox
just for me, how precious!
Precious, just for me. Only to me.
I do wish nightmares to never end,
as they are a sign that dreaming is still
working its harrow within me, that I can
birth both my elation and my depression;
there is a whole universe that does
not include beauty, yet can only be
understood as its eventual expression.

The Familiar - A Trattoria in Modena

Ludovico Muratori, you bastard
- five years of torture many have suffered
in your name, misused and abused -
both your inordinate historiographical
bacchanalia and your unwavering faith in accruing
the redundant find pleasurable abandon in the
museum of intellectual cramps and
Italian – too Italian – that
these four restaurant walls are.

I do not know if you might really speak
of buon gusto or perfect Italian poetry; after
all it took us centuries to reach spiritual
advancements such as too much cream in our
tortellini, too much grease in our ragu', too many
picky children for too desperate yet caring parents
seating by the corner under that ugly, ugly pink goat.

Still, you would surely cherish, though perhaps
not applaud, the good hands – rubberband laden -
in which you left your future children, evenly
divided between those who struggle to fill the plate,
and those who fight to empty it.

(Another quick one from Robin Behn's - was supposed to mimick a Ginsberg poem. Orly?)

Playing Tubes

Nodes cramp despondent,
then crumble in flecks as
the pressure falters

twin sickly
white brass tubes
hold no longer and mourn

quiver ever so slightly
- in the face of hypocrisy –
chisel my bones down
to the marrow

pale flesh
that, may it be blessed,
remains sensitive yet
well out of sight

Temple of Chaos

Nightly suspension turns
electrified, in that realm
of intangible undercurrents
- cloud enveloped arcoiris
and the summit barely
there, tangential to
deep space lightstream -
that is the Temple of Chaos.

Sudden becomes matter;
no presence but that of
the aspiring time-traveller is,
in that fractured formless
within the Temple of Chaos.

Fuse

I do not know why
writers loves the word
melt so much,
it rolls under the tongue
like so much overblown whale
carcass, cooking in the sun
of a sixteen year old
falling down on herself
for no reason
at all.

Anthology

Rather, a withered
exocorpses collection;
a more practical tool,
no urge for needles
and pins to hold
quiet what's still.

Nervous Green

It's red and black
perfect, tainted by green, the
filth that paints neurons on
chips of an earthware teacup
- its acid bores from the fingernail's
unseen underside all the way up to the
inland sea pressured in my left eye –
that green that tastes of wrong place
and time, wrong leaf and wrong apple.
I cusp a convex container,
for the time being allowed to
pull together different strands
in expectation of better days,
savouring a sleep of no dreaming
- the glossy surface of spiritual disturbance
which no mind can successfully mediate,
which does not fulfil requirements for existence.
The shaking earthware cup screams aloud
for it pains, when crimson, to be tainted by green.

Exercise - Dramatic Monologue: A Night in Mother India

There, contact once again. I could feel them following me all along, waiting for my hand to gesture to one of the little plates casually arranged all over the pretentiously faux-cheap tablecloth, ideal companion to the even cheaper paper napkins – some of which were still laying, useless, over the messy arrangement or under curry-smeared dishes.
For some reason, that seemed to irk him to no end. Not sure if it was either a forced, preposterous display of antiquated manners; or, perhaps, the awareness that I had exposed his game long ago, but his eyes kept darting from hand to napkin back to hand through water glasses, chunks of gummy rice, the usual fare of a table of too-grown kids who think making a mess is the mark of appreciating ethnic cuisine.
At any rate, the snob didn't seem to share the love for exotic flavoured food of our peers. A bowl of almond rice – I' quite surprised I remember that in the first place – is all he asked the waiter, a preppy pseudo-Indian young man more saddened than invigorated by the table of sixteen-odd students who stormed the establishment just a mere hour ago.
The rice wasn't even halfway gone by the time I caught a glimpse of the poorly-disguised game he was playing with me. On the fly eye contact.
Very Original. Or rather, somewhere in between the old fashioned and the downright pathetic. His version of the antediluvian trick went something like this.
Follow crumbs on table.
Follow girl's hand playing with crumbs.
Wait for girl to be called and turn her head.
Once girl's head returns to original position, eye contact.
Of course, with all the effort he was putting into the little trick, I had to give him some satisfaction – a shy smile here and there, an equivocal hand movement vaguely in his trajectory, little peanuts like that. Except the couple times he was peeking at my chest. No peanuts for those, sorry.
It took a while, but in the end my attempts to make him lose interest succeed. His sight slowly retracts and veils, his whole body slumping backwards and assuming the International Deep Boredom Position – provides full protection to one's more delicate thoughts while substituting less effective techniques (see Nod And Smile). Someone talks to him, he does not care and does nothing to disguise it. Shouldn't be the one to criticize, as I do even less to disguise my own growing annoyance for being where I do not want to be at the wrong time. This should be tea time. It's always tea time when you don't want to be where you are.

(Another one from Robin Behn's book. I am clearly not cut for fictional prose - not yet anyway.)

Ecru

In ecru lives and happens
all that is desirable,
of the flesh.
It is of ecru to be an
invisible fluid, to
always move down-
ward, in the direction of
its proper fulfilment:
which is flesh.
Ecru is distillation of
the female, it mimics its
form, signs, movement;
it is by a shameful mistake
that passion turns into crimson
against its own will.

Sieve

The weaker thank you, the
paths of least resistance
we choose, so that it might run
smother between
and within us
- watery silk –
you cannot hold in
your hand, clean of all this.
You should force it down as if
crunching dust:
in the fledgling horror of self
- defense –
all experience is fractioned in units
so equal they
(are) matter no longer,
shredded into ultimate servitude
by a mind like a sieve.

A Fluid

Among the folds on the left
corner, it seems close to
impossible that I might
exist in such a form,
fending for myself – approaching
night by the second;
depth feeder,
poison contra poison.

In the participatory
act of letting it all in,
upside and laughter descend
into what was before you,
and then it means nothing
to me any more.

Irony Lily

Irony Lily
I'll be the fake in your
condolences, gently
useless,
I'll be a
staff (I suppose), a cue
voice in
your waterproof, seething
limesong.

You spend he rest of the day
on your knees, in half-light
scraping – invested
fully in your persona
to tote, to tangle up in everyone
so spritefully, right?

I'll spend the rest of the year
sleeping tight, in your
bathtub, useless:
I'll consume water to
write these words down,
looking upwards
all the time.

Adoration

I adore the figure of
clouds into autumn's greyout,
that season where all is preserved
from the slights of rainfall,
and the hillside-flowered grapes tend to fall
in the hands of men just a few days
too soon.

Calmly under foliage – her
clothes an universe of their own,
that smirk which I always thought
expressed malcelated concern
(like I cared) – she inhales the
autumn laughter concert, stirring
uneasy in her bed of three months:
for now, I can do little but adore
the subtlety of her precarious position.

Humus – the marrow of the land – rustles
of a myriad small creatures, guests uninvited
but welcome to our little tea party of two:
grapes find their way to the basket where
just a tiny crust of earth is always to be
found – as if the engagement of high and low
was, somewhat, inevitable – lingering, from the
remains of disappearing birds' corpses
to the back of men's primordial minds.

I should save adoration, for
there may be time when it's not
right – her flesh not so fair,
the will to crawl under autumn leaves
seeking affirmation. Then, I might
want to be made of breath
instead of soil.

Stones of Old City

As winter endures, our
breath grows warmer and
wider, it moves from actualit
-y to memor-y.
The intricate, constrained
pavementation bears no
weight, draws no lines or geometries;
It supports no arguments or
interpretations.
Sanguine, bound shawls and shoes
are all that is needed to
regress - their
sound that's settling, if
only sound would end perhaps I
could be listening to myself.

Roger Mitchell's "Tell By Showing":The Failure of Flesh

“Worlds are altered rather than destroyed.” Democritus

The failure of flesh is a
lack of means to accommodate
the flow of instants, who
cannot find port in this
layered, yet curiously hollow
construct.
Decay's intrinsic alienation
is the enemy of recreation - fissure
of one's imprecise perceptions, cycles
floored like so many sad,
unused predispositions.

A Cautionary Tale

Once a
young girl asked her parents
for instruments of constraint - drew a wall and
meditated upon the value of consciousness
'till consciousness was barely a flicker.
Years later, taken to ER,
treated for abrasions, lacerations and perpetrations:
sculpted a mirror from scratch, she
wondered if it could be crossed both ways:
It's a one-way ticket to ride, it seems.

Soon she was declared enemy of all that is human
and bound to a cascade ruby opal grand design,
to pronounce orders of increasing magnitude
such as – Let There Be Light- or
- Let There Be Escapism Through Melancholy.
Unknown to all, something was at play: by
a summer in a green - peace garden, where all could be
cross and crossed, forgotten just as easily,
nothing but a movement further, yet stepping sideways.

A Certainty

A growing child in red is a murder
phased in expectancy,
a tendency to throw everyone
else beneath - cast in fabric,
hammer and nails.
The hue is not cohesive, it phases
back and forth at each swell,
up and down the backstaircase
where pale condense testifies to
such a lasting impression.
Growing in red, a long
fastidious life is a
certainty on which we can depend.

10 - Minute Spill (Rita Dove exercise): Blackberry

The whirring needle, from the
top of a blackberry bush
finds its way undisturbed into
the cloud of whirring dust
that my body is.

The temptation to push its
subtlety further in, stifled by
sudden – surprise.
A blackberry - juice - tinged cloud
scours on my bronze ring.

(exercise from Robin Behn's "The Practice of Poetry" Good book, you should get it.)

Antidote

Grating forward against organization, the
pale and the grey win over iniquity, trample
black and red.

Explosion – the outward manifestation of
young hands of gratitude, bliss versus
echoing a dim-lit room,
hateful.

Here as there, sudden implosion of
self over self, snow over cold, the needle
marking the signs of our times.

The whispering song of sex, antidote to the short and
clearly naïve, wings uncovered to escape 19th century's
trivial, 20th century-like ignorance.

Two - Minute Silence

Down the gravel road, into fortyorso degrees
a discovery of catalogical proportions

occurs:

Trigger is a semi-wondrous smile,
milk stains cowering eyes sixth-
ousand both ways I see, a discharge
across the earth, runs
hushed undisconnected.
The universal, internal whole, cradle
and hearse of all that we have ever
thought in us – an universal
that is universe.

Earth Paradise

Hold on tight to your tiny special
revelation, young and uninitiated, for it means
nothing unless it gleams defiant in your grip of
premature, innocent disillusion.
You have been promised more than once, so
here is more: a future not so far where,
sudden and sharply projected like
fantasies from an old wives’ tale,
Waterstone’s painful lives whiteout,
dust being blown
down in the ceaseless ocean, then
back to earth paradise, once again.

Disilluminata

Di notte
La torre di pietra intagliata
veglia su di me mentre

incessantemente

scavo in tutti gli slarghi ed incroci
che tu calpesti ogni giorno ogni minuto
senza un solo pensiero

scopro il torrente sotterraneo seppellito
chiarezza in un canale
che in incognito nutre
la torre di pietra intagliata
e me
e tu
anche di giorno quando il sole ci brucia
e noi ci incrociamo e calpestiamo
senza pensare senza capire

Più veneziana di Venezia
Più dirompente di un Niagara
Con un Nilo attorcigliato intorno

Non sembra difficile da scovare

Ma la nebbia di Novembre è dura a tagliarsi
E la mia verità è la tua bugia

(This one actually won a prize. Crazy, I know.)

Portable Dream Station

Okra tinted glass in a
Portable Dream Station,
turns lead into lead sky
ahead, reward of my expression
‘s accumulated stress.

Its foil is snow, daughter of
ages ago’s ingested pollutions,
keying of tints barely known to
our kind, a trance-like
depression, to behold.

Portable Dream Station, I recall the
days before you – quiet before
truth, first impressions.

Bells of Old City

The bell of Old City harbor is
- resounding in the Glory of the Lord -
taken down for centennial refurbishment
at nine,
seventy-eight,
Age of Aquarius.

It whispers the joy of being among
mortals, near dead and quite abandoned.
Resounding is the glory of the
lord,
as we both wallow in mist, mud and snow.

2X09

Affascinati da bellezza ricostruita
arriva il 2X09, ed ancora troviamo la
lucente sciocchezza di cielo e paradiso
in altri, cuori trincerati nelle loro diversi
tà, menti dissolte in un’ algida apparenza.

Finalmente marciamo senza nessuna ragione,
all ombra delle siepi di un rozzo cumulo
vagamente Palladiano, strascicandoci in linee
ordinate, perdendoci pezzo dopo pezzo.

Il 2X09 è arrivato passato e poi riesumato
crudamente, appeso al contrario con cinque spilli
capocchiati viola ed azzurro cielo. Diverso in
apparenza, unto e sacrosantamente lo stesso
pallido, squallido pavimento prefabbricato ripulito
notte dopo notte.

Modena I

Più ci penso, più sono sicuro che

niente mi è mai stato negato dalla

pietra senza dubbio fragile, ma ancora

vitale dopo secoli di fratture brutture.

I molti budelli di cui non mi preoccupo di

ricordare il nome riescono ancora ad incastr

arsi perfettamente l’uno nell’ altro, sia d’

inverno – rilasciando biancore languido, sia d’

estate – diviso e sempre arso.

Tutto è, in un certo senso, impuro qui

dentro: tutto è stato vissuto fino all’ ultimo

viscidume, fino all’ ultimo affetto, ed ora tutto

è ciò che c’è, in basso tra i cocci

in alto, negli sguardi dalle finestre.

Lo tolleriamo, camminando aspiranti nel

biancore languido dell’ inverno, diviso e

sempre arso – è piacevolmente caldo ed accogli-

ente all’anima, in pericolo di essere aspirata

verso una distante, senz’altro incerta vita.

Collegamenti

Nel DuemilaeNove
scendono scale dell’
involuzione a passo serrato,
cercando cavi e congegni
distillano l’anima di ciò
che desidero indietro
del mio ex-corpo.

Collegamenti possono essere
tessuti, sottili ed ingegnosi nella
loro purezza di luce, rame, plexiglas.

Plexißàglas.

Spine di congegni, privi di massa
effettiva ma carichi di luce cancrogena
nella nostra testa, li abbiamo
incastonati noi stessi.
Luminescono, fissati nella loro
droga, presi nella loro lucentezza.

I Collegamenti sono timore- la
paura di cosa accadrà quando le
tue dita scivoleranno su quel secco,
delineato pulsante rosso.

The Magick of Free Verse

If anything made any sense wh-
atsoever - for a split second - it wa-
s only in your head,
perhaps not even there

You alone think
we did not painfully endure your
flashy schemes and fiddly y-mes;
Fine for stolid times (that live
only inside your head by now)

New instances are entered at
every minute – you miss a step
and grind to a halt,
we are already there
breaking it down for your
butterteeth – too nice of us.

This is not a fantasy, you are feeling
deeply: but today’s cars
are automatic guns built to crash - land in trees
internet diseases erupt in nanoseconds
wartimes wither in dirt
you are no savior of your own.

(Beyond Tristan D'Agosta)

Shame Us All

- No thoughts -
that flashes by an
open fire, sure to strike
expected un experienced,
safe within the flow yet
out of it,
out of touch.

Feebles - for sulking of better words -
hulking on a wire,
putting your heart / felt - in lines
‘till not even the lucky clevers among us
can safely comply.

One by one we all
pitch in line, eager to
know - why
you shame us all.