There is benign strength
In my poet’s legs
To keep my words
From falling off in a dishonest dance routine
Noted among people
Who even served worms
the words stuck like phlegm
in their throats
Dying in the purpose of throne-making
for a self in state of decline,
Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.
Then in death
There is always a radioactivity.
The charged words bump against the glass
Like a moth or a housefly
Like a lover or a businessman
And at last
The mind breaks with its own ambition.
Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon
As I must grow old
With the laws of gravity;
The horror is surreal
Of balding the moon off her throne
Into the sterile.
How is that they must define us as a lack
And in the same breath
Call the lands which could not bear the life
So must I be
Either empty or full?
I wish I was easy as the glass.
Plate 16. The First Book of Urizen. William Blake
There is a death star
Dramatic in its capital transition
Which rises above my head
Eating my dreams
For the normality of traffic jams
And toothpaste advertisements
Imagine if all your favourite poetry
Were to be turned into
A brute of straightjacketed
sound of the second-hand;
Time without seasons
and sleep without dreams.
Of smothering of the consciousness
In the sweaty palms of
Fabric conditioners and slime coloured detergents
That surely leave no stain
And are optimum for steel utensils.
The Painter’s Daughters Chasing a Butterfly (c1756) by Thomas Gainsborough
I think of the times
When I was a child
I wrote with crooked pencils
To a merciful little girl with a pink umbrella
Of what I wrote first
I wrote of gratitude,
Surrounded by the dark cushioning skies
That ate mirrors
To an affect—
That only people who could trace
the shape that was my shoulders
Told me of the true prophecies
that I made.
Cassandra hung up by her legs;
Untouched by the ears of ‘career men’,
till they inflicted me
With an ambition of
Turning wine into water.
The Equation of Desire. Martin Soto Climent. Mousse Publishing.
He would always sit ahead of us
In his citric orange T-shirt
Against the abandoned air-conditioned classrooms
Made by the Japanese and
Maintained by the miniature birds,
Who often get trapped in lecture-hall limbos.
I cannot write him
He’s a plant that does not germinate
Into wishful thinking
Of infatuated hearts, struck by poverty
A lack that begins to define you,
Your illegitimate parent.
But here’s a trick,
Chance a find
you have to look.
Glance upon his quivery brow
the rickety case of criss-crossed legs
That dares to announce
—If just for a second—
The same lack as you
Let me read you
the opposite of poetry.
I pull out a letter knife
And toy with red-lettered words
Till I no longer have a thirst for the apple juice
Or the Antarctic sky.
Whatever comes up
The blood or blues
I gulp it down with white wine
Until my feet are cold, enough for sleep,
And then I weep in poetry.
Photo series by Gabriele Viertal
My nose is a Spanish bull
It takes about two dozen full-breaths
To growl upon the painted signs
Against windows that are not supposed to be windows,
Neither, anything else.
I look away.
My fever is the beat of
Two notching drumsticks.
A cracker. Outflanked. A red fish.
Do you see your heart slapped out often?
Sometimes I feel them,
These sea animals of the red waters
Trapped inside a—
He slit my throat.
Scarlet mixed with some southern blue
Trickle down upon my neck of a
I see you
Making me leave me
In an un-manifested non-material space
Of an absent presence
Like the sky above the mountains
That comes to me in dilated scents;
I’ve learned conjuring.
It is a dark art to enjoy a gash
And wear it like a necklace,
If that is poetry?