Muse

Groundwork 


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 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               

                              

      
I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

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. 

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Vanitas

Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon


As I must grow old 

And wilt

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

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass. 

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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

Of absurd

For the normality of traffic jams

And toothpaste advertisements

 

Imagine if all your favourite poetry

Were to be turned into

A brute of straightjacketed

jaw-aching ‘normal’

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.

From the naive poet

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;

An underworld

Of imagination

Untouched by the ears of ‘career men’,

I wrote,

till they inflicted me

With an ambition of

Turning wine into water.

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

Sultry

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

Or

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. 

Aquarium

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,

Me.

Bloom

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?