The Imposter Syndrome

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

Of lack.

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

And your

Out-of-the-league desires. 

Set of words 

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,
I dream 

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—

Bottomless tank,



He slit my throat.


Scarlet mixed with some southern blue

Trickle down upon my neck of a

Never-ending wound.

I see you

Making me leave me

Into you


A phantasm

Of existing

In an un-manifested non-material space

Of an absent presence

Like the sky above the mountains

That comes to me in dilated scents;

With distance,

I’ve learned conjuring.


It is a dark art to enjoy a gash

Of uncertainty

And wear it like a necklace,

Tell me,

If that is poetry?

Sphinx’s tale of evenings 

On a bench sodden with invasion of ice

Back from the evening street’s burlesque gait, 

I step-step with a dog 

and my cup of tea drools upon the air, 

smoking light whiskers of cinnamon in its ascent. 

People like to nibble upon beautiful things, 

they munch upon red rice-cakes that drop down after sunset,

To sediment in their drunk eyes 

What is it about the evenings that conjure up bar inns in vicinity? 

Like a sleight of hand , 

the man,

 digs deep in his shoes

 and begins to grow upon a pubescent liquor counter.

 Lights begin to take his youth over

Ultra blues that dissolve the lemon pinks 

into a downward spiral of vomiting

Need a girl to hold your midnight hair

 Around the damp floral patterns of the old man’s least cliche bedroom 

‘How beautiful’ 

Is death. 

The ice cuts my tongue.

 So does tea.

The dog-eared evening is licked close. 

Bird House


As if upon a manicured piano,

My fingers play upon the letters

Before I have to deliberate the symphony

That must type you out.

A half-eaten apple,

My fallen sin.

Incomplete, inside my cells

Yet a sea.

Crisp textures of sounds

That make a colourful pattern for hunting birds

Which pick at fish meat, just before

I close my eyes and see you.


When will that be?


A closing ground,

Distraught by the carcass of a pretty bird.

I open.

In macabre.

A dance of pink-lipped lizards.

In the night where men disappear into other men.

Seven fold.

With crooked pretty legs.

I hunger.

You don’t see me.


You open me up.

You spill me out.

You seep inside my stomach.

And eat at my heart,

It is moon shaped.


A bastard of heavy-hearted thoughts.

Will you stay?

Morning Rituals

I swallowed a dragon’s tail

And then went out to order my morning latte.

The winter was worn out

But my trees were young still,

Fawning in the dilating dew,

Oh-so-subtly knocking upon the loud-mouthed lamppost


Every morning when I purse my lips

A sigh exuberant, closes the grounds

I cease my trying

I become the rhythmic sound of motor vehicles,


And amateur poetry


Nothing like them, twisting a sound against your neck

Try Try

The sorrow fails.

It is an escaping earthen refuse

A rasping sound–out  into a glittery blank space


The mushrooms begin to sprout below the ground

An alternate suppression

Of a Legion

Robed in a grey fur blanket

Of a weather

That hangs without a house-clock or a center.


Someone babbles on the radio, ‘Mayday’

I laugh and sip my coffee.


Image credits:



Lay scattered upon my desk
Dripping into my hair
I’m all drenched
Into exhaustion,
Come swiftly

Under my mattress
Are bewildered alarms
I pick up things
And things pick me back
Wave upon wave
A slaughter
When absence speaks with presence,
And words dissolve before their meanings
What will become of you? 
What will they do to you?