It’s in here – this dark cavity of my palm,where invisible Venus is suspendedin a perceptive night. Wrapped in skin.Not her own, but her own too sitscloser to her sobs, her heart-throbs.Among us, peaking in, we have weaponsof earthly materials, ready to dashtowards the next bellow from a God.We seek new platforms, beyond the skinthat […]
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And the kitchen in my final stateis on the move again like an imagein a catalogueAnd I think I’m getting used to the painof the initial separation and the changefrom us to IAnd I try on the third life for sizeand when the fourth doesn’t fitI see that nothing willAnd I realise it’s a dead
in a spotlight on the dock divinity through cloudsI’ve stood and watchedher fumbling to steerthe boat ashore my voice –the thunder keeps her stillas if she’s not even tryingto get away from over there way over thereshe trips overboardswims through the coldsea of indecision she floatsin limbo and disappearsI can’t help but notice how it’s
Years later when I stumble into a café in Finland,I halt by the coffee station and grab a fistful ofmy mother’s sleeve, Listen to the song! I shout.What? – she jumps – Is going on? And I cannotexplain why my head is turned to the ceiling fan –eyes wide open, letting the showers of an
When you call your mother, what should we do? you’re not looking for the meaning itselfbut for what there’s left without it. You’ve finished Camus and the chamomile tea –you feel a revolution or a metaphorical suicide. When you go for a walk, there’s wind to notice –which you do. A book is torn to
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we speed along through valleys and steep hillsthe driver determinedto put us back where we belong butI did not agree to be shoved alonghis path of Carpe Diemhis time schedule speeds tires tiredspeeds rubber and asphalthe drives on while I’m at the station negotiatingprices of one life-time guaranteed friendshipover another and I cannot resist the
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The village girl is her own Muse.She shapeshifts into every painted circumstance.When she needs to know a hand, she studies her own.Canvased old man by a chair needs to stand crooked with a back broken – she curls herself like aluminium foiland examines how the spine sticks out like a dragon.When she needs the right
Speak clearly, little man. Those curious eyes, know all I have forgotten.Remind me again, the place you came from. Your grip around my pinkie isdesperate. You are, I know, dyingto tell me about birth. I know, you’d killto see me reborn. I know, you’d birth me yourself if you could.The strength of being lost for
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The quality of a human body,the tender flesh of a ripened pear,melts on my tongue andconsumes me,like the punch of a partyor the knockout of lust.It knocks the savage humaninto my core.The catastrophic picture of it all.The quality of a human body,invites me to dine.Figures, ancient, grotesque,a human subject flails off the edgeand onto the
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Bliss in the morning hourwhen a nose touches downinto a hand, soothing tremblesfrom aromas of a nightmarethe tinge of something smallinvestigated by the curiousman searching for a homeincense of a sweaty palmfound deodorant debrisor wrinkles on a bedsheetthe air from a windowpanethe static scent of subtle rain.
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