2am
Two black eyes
and an oil slick smile
pretty fille tending toward
the water
the smell of scorching
bulbs and neon
beacons.

4am
A man thrusts
his accordian
together
it’s quite the picturesque vista
a year’s grief pinned
to a chimera’s feathers
comme par hasard

12pm
The Italian’s fingers
smoulder when
the strings
lick his skin
a thousand tiny lashes
something is happening..

but are weathered

beyond all

recognition

retreating
all day all night
that world of water
an impasse as impassive
as the spirits we
raise there.

Folie à plusieurs

Dull desire bores like a dentist’s drill.
My lovers: Alice down the rabbit-hole, a girl made of geraniums.
Afghanistan. Judge them, JUDGE THEM.
When you die:
Keep your Breton close to where your heart used to be
Remember:
Jesus was a surrealist.
Plato was a surrealist.
Nietzsche was a surrealist.
Freud was probably a surrealist.
Suppose we are a question of distance.
Dare to venture that far. Enjoy being lost.

Taught to dream
not with his head
but with his hands.

Inside he’s naked
and a little girl.
She loves, and alone
They leave, and die
young dos elastique
and so the sea finds
comical the combinations
in French soils .

Now never screaming
froid et subtle
dates nor eyes
nor your voice
added with their wounds
move our city of displacement.

And I am left screaming:
WHY SHOULD I PAY THE COUNCIL TAX?

Bastards.

                                        plume

                         until the pressure was subdued

more it gazed into me,

                                                               More I aged, per mesi…

____

I under colours, suffers
my driving thoughts
all day through.

It grows so immense
that before I know it,
I am lost in open waters.

I asked my father, never short of
absurd and profound truths,
whether I should discard
the horrible eyes of English
as though it were a well-defined illusion

Still I know
had he told me different
I would have cried tears
that could split atoms,
as I clung like a coastal city
onto the edge of my identity.

—-

Somewhere
there is a woman,
her hips wind like a river,
her language like our hands
stretched out in a thousand words.

Spread through the fields the
daggers pass
like
my
thoughts.
But we are suspended like
months upon our words,
in the Gardens where we weep,

SIXTH

subdue

hissssteria of those troublesome female mass es
 eased with antihisteriamines         let’s get fiscal:
  and pass       the deep congress ional act
   she said do we need protectionism?
    seminal      cash injections leave a mess
     on both your economy and mine
      pre servativ o ur values are not gd
       truncated that growth stimulus package easily
        feeling the explosion        of that cap italicism
         s crunch the fabric     and col lapse into
          the  arms of     the latest word isms

Not well.