Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes

The other day (the one preceding today) I saw a woman who looked like Nikolaus Karl Günther Nakszyński (Klaus Kinski). I could have easily mistaken her for the great German actor, the principal star of such films as Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes, The Secret Diary of Sigmund Freud, Nosferatu a Venezia, Les Fruits de la Passion, Burden of Dreams, Kinder, Mutter und ein General, Ludwig II: Glanz und Ende eines Königs, Um Thron und Liebe/Sarajewo and Morituri, had she not been wearing a long woman’s-coat and smoking a Virginia Slims.

The other day (the one before today) I saw a woman who looked suspiciously (or was it conspicuously?) like Carl Adolf von Sydow (Max von Sydow), the star of such films as Det Sjunde inseglet, Fröken Julie, Smultronstället, Nära Livet, Jungfrukällan, Älskarinnan, Svarta Palmkronor, Il Deserto dei Tartari, Ingenjör Andrées luftfärd, Le Cercle des passions, and Bara en mor (Only a Mother). If it weren’t for the fact that she was wearing a leopard-skin jacket, a lilac-pullover and an Ushanka propeller cap.

I saw Carl Adolf von Sydow, face reddening, steadying a piece of wood, a shim or a shingle or a truss, as Karl Günther Nakszyński hacked away at it with a broad-axe. The two men, principal actors in they’re own right, were gabbing to one another in German, a Teutonic banter that was ear-deafening. At one point Carl turned to Karl and said, whisperingly, I bet I could beat you at chess, to which Karl said, ‘and I you at staying afloat on a beanpole-raft with a thousand-and-one monkeys’. ‘Would I have to wear a helmet?’ asked Carl. ‘Only if it rains’ said Karl, ‘and then it’s up to you whether to keep it on or not’. The two men, Karl and Carl laughed, shook they’re feet in the air and went back to sawing, Carl steadying, Karl hacking away.

Big Bang Gros Bang

Le salon n'est pas encore
The living room is not yet
Totalement plongé
Completely dark
Dans l'obscurité
La plus grande découverte
The greatest dicovery
Du siècle caduc
Of this forgotten century
Ne vaut pas une heure
Is not worth an hour
De véritable souffrance
Of real pain
Voilà pour l'histoire
So much for history

Par une raison
For a reason
Non falsifiable
Impossible to fake
Toutes les espèces
All of our species
Sont sur le point
Are on the verge
De disparaître
Of disappearing
Selon source sûre
Ce n'est qu'un début
That's just the start
Une philosophie
Of a philosophy
Campée d'espérance
Based on hope.

Against the Tide

Gravity pulled the book
to the floor. Even words
are bound by laws; the teeth
of adjectives and nouns
biting down on paper.

To burn a word, a branding
on the heart, this word defies
erasure, floats on blood,
knows no up-or-down or trips
or falls. Is it our fault

that love will kill us; have
you seen a dead bird fly?

With ink, we write the feathers
of the wing: a mountain top,
a steel-blue sky, a cloud to pierce,
a draft to climb and dive,
a moment when the journey down

turns against the tide.

the endless

The Seventh Circle

How much longer will we search? All night,
the blackness cherishes its splendid gifts-

the spotted owl, the thin and hungry wolves,
white-skinned birches where bobtailed deer

graze on clover. But we are kept from paradise
cradled by what-we-are-denied: knowledge of

the light, acceptance of the darkness.

In an open field, at dusk, a falcon hunts
for mouse or rabbit,without a sign, he circles

round and round. Somethings that are hidden
were never meant to be discovered.

Still Him at Your Breast

hip bones ache with loneliness,
press your ear to the flesh;
listen to them weep.

Thoughts dissolve slowly
in a vase of murky water;
the last and only flowers ever bought
turn to dust and fall into my mouth.

These hidden messages go unseen.
I intricately weave them to my heart,
suffocating the very life,
the weak and staggering beat that is left.

You look at me - your lingering ghost;
a haunting that you cannot exorcise from your body,
your soul.

Naive thoughts of love have long since suffered a corruption
Once the conductor of my happiness;
a symphony softening my hardened parts - the years of building my fortress.

These memories can never be undone;
my heart will not flourish and burn with passion.
The desolate lands that have spread like a July wild fire
leave me bleak and hesitant.

Hard frost

Overbalancing season's
seismic aura shudders
through troubled dreams
of longer nights
lower horizons
wider skies
and twisting
black shadows
of southbound wings
flickering across
hills and hummocks
of hardening earth.


Shake 'em
With your
Run around

Power of Denial

Hushed with lips hiding violent secrets;
you dressed me in her clothes,
licked the shell of my ear - her name stuck in your throat.
You've lingered for too long in the past.
Tongues that find their way over vast distances,
but you are desire bound.
So my feet drag on, in the endless desert
of your heart.
I want to come home.
Honesty like a sobbing woman.
Courage like a dying man.
Hands that hush my nervous nature -
Hands that never lie, wash me like a
river does a rock;
Soothes my hardened parts.
I want to come home.

diffuse hydraulics

Agricultural no man's land / blood on the chest / the intestine of a small animal squeezed out / coiled like an embryo / slinky cat in window / eyes fluoresce / sliding images speak / a loss of visual contact but still talking / her violence framed in pigtails / my inanimate face / blank documents / shredded addresses / her fist tender / beating out colours / red / blackening yellow / cheek illuminated with pain / light / a grin breaks out across her face / thin lips buckle into a sneer / my fingers are snapped off / planted in the earth of a pot / digital foliage / stumps squirting ripe / dripping flower spots on concrete / rippled / dry and white / a fountain of noise from a machine / fragrances of burnt fuel / her fist blooms into a slender fan / trickling before her face / coquettish / look at mine / look at your four stumps / are they sour / they taste air raw / languid sightballs roll into her words / upwards into my head / showing whites / scl-erotic / dribbling a little / wipe mouth with ghost fingers / rouge my cheek / faint into orgasm / into black solitude / subconscious / she dresses me / her doll / a barbwire choker / iron christ jewellery in palms and feet / stinging steaming urine… sometime later / I awake into a death / head propped against the connecting hydraulic arm of a square bailer / lick at its dark brown globs of grease / her shadow flits about the shed / passes over circles of bird shit / sparks my conscious wake / my wait at her fingertips…


Because I love you, the night
disobeys its hidden God, makes
my hands immortal though they hold
the fire. We are grains of fire
crackling to ash. And while

I loved you, the moon became
a jealous eye, a jilted planet
whose beauty was extinguished
by our glowing bodies; what galaxy,
what whiteness shares our wounds?

When darkness comes to kill us,
eats the energy between our thighs,
our mouths, our eyes, a fallen star
travels across the sympathetic skies
and leaves a brilliant arc.


It's hard to stop
the catapult towards mercy.
Would I be inconsequential
if I were sin-less?

While the spirit knows
who is responsible for grief,
I have forgotten history,
the root, the seed, buried

beneath the symbols.

Of blood and nerves,
I laughed, I danced, listened
to the red-bird singing from
such a distance like blood

leaking from its deep incision.

Now I lie in waiting,
the peace of sky, the rippling
blue-painted pool of ocean creasing,
a worried brow; and I am

solitary, ceaseless,
lifelong dreaming

of being born again.

Alexander & the Jains

On his way down from the Kyber Pass, perhaps in the holy city of Taxila, Alexander gathered to his tent ten wise men whom Plutarch calls Gymnosophists. They were probably Jains. The Macedonian emperor questioned them under pain of death and said that he who gave the worst answer would be killed first. Here are the questions and their answers:

Which are the most numerous, the living or the dead?

The living, because the dead are not at all.

Does the earth or the sea produce the largest beasts?

The earth, for the sea is but a part of it.

Which is the cunningest of beasts?

That which men have not yet found out.

What argument was used to Sabbas to make him revolt?

No other than that he should either live or die nobly.

Which is the eldest, night or day?

Day is eldest, by one day at least.

What should a man do to be exceedingly beloved?

He must be very powerful without making himself too much feared.

How might a man become a god?

By doing that which it is impossible for men to do.

Which is stronger, life or death?

Life, because it supports so many miseries.

How long is it decent for a man to live?

Till death appear more desirable than life.

Then Alexander turned to the tenth man and asked his judgment of these answers.

All I can determine, said he, is that they have every one answered worse than another.

Then, said the king, you shall die first, for giving such a answer.

Not so, O king,
replied the gymnosophist, unless you said falsely that he should die first who made the worst answer.
Am Always Coming Out To The City

something in my genes
compels me to count the letters
of the words in my eye
shackles me to tired information
bleeds the adjective
even before my mind speaks

something borrowed
garbled hip hop language
am always coming out to the city
before the beat knocks on the door.

my rapidly vanishing religion

2 reasons 2 urry up while ur @ it

mesopotent paradisiac


while (inside)
the outside is code
the code is outside
the outside is coded
the outside is coding

so we bleed


in between moments
your body will be beaten
by bats spreading their wings
on the inside

& your thoughts will be crushed
by heavy traffic
between your thighs

in between moments
our eyes will have eaten
each other
a billion times

& all your rats will
have started free arts
on my most distant stars

so wrap it up will you
i've got a few thousand others waiting
squeezed up inside my balls

dreak day in dundee

Deep blur / highly defined / pixellated khaki / fatigues / the soldiers appear as digital glitch on the interminable screen that covers every surface of the world / pregnant scenes belch babies into realities / into soap operas / placenta cross fades into terrorist explosions / the soldiers dodge into the happy crowds of adverts / reach out arms / extended with jagged knifes / slash / cut into the bellies of the obese / let loose the half digested spoils of war / slinking back into the screen / glistening red wet knife merged into bodywork of silver car / stomach contents steam into images of the rainforest / facial labia gloss over in the sky / pout / smile / insurgents in her teeth open fire with handheld projectors / somersaulting humvees crash into dust / into crowds of hapless shoppers / low resolution soldiers crumple to the ground next to the municipal urinals / an improvised video device explodes / the resulting feedback wipes the cerebral harddrive of a passerby and severely corrupts a number of others / they bend and spew from the mouth and ears / memories / holiday imagery / their favourite fuckloops / a voyeur / a vicariaste scoops up the digital slop and quickly squashes it into his eyeball / headfuckrush / unknown people and visual anecdotes glide into his friends list / a terrorist lets his camouflage slip / head exposed in all its reality / poking out the side of a piece of meatcandy between two lumps of bread / I’m lovin it / soldier zeros’ in / fires / obliterates the enemy usb compatible headbulb / the headless body stumbles now heedless / stomach speaker emitting death speech / an antenna secreted in the anus fires out finality texts to family / already in mourning / who were watching the attack live from his eyebubbles / the soldier uploads his kill / four more for promotion / just one more for a weapon upgrade / a distant German hacker tracks the soldiers ip and converts his kills into nectar points / one day he’s going to tell the world that it was a liberation / getting a real time paedophile for 1600 points / bouncing grenade detonates / ejaculating price cuts / bargains / eternal sales fluxing across the screen / children skip through realities viscera / through the smoke and corporeal detritus left by a shimmering suicide bomber / the screen flutters into blackness…


Inspiration arrives in many forms; why
is mine elusive? Perhaps I do not stop
to look at trees, immune to nature's guile
and grace. Won't you make the rose desist
and drop her poignant beauty; imagine all
the dreamers she would fail!

But you, my little moth-sized bird, you're
neon glittered throat, your vibratory wings;
you are just as fast and brief, nearly hidden
by magnolia stamens. You and I grow wild,
grow secretly into our favorite flower; not
a shadow or a petal misses our departure.

map of the kindness of strangers II

all that mattered

Ballad of Tarquino

My love, my love where did you go
The cold winds of lost love did blow
You left me beneath a blanket of snow
Now my memories are filling with woes
And by my memories am I held low

Well do I remember when I held your form
Well do I remember how sweet and warm
To be wrap in your arms against the storm
That called our love deform
When in fact our love is of God’s norm

Then you was my man to my heart born
And with true love was we adorn
But our love by time finally torn
Sweet love torn as if by the Jerusalem thorn
To love no more I have sworn

Time have not heal the wounds love lost made
Lost love linger in me it dose not fade
Love lost memories must be paid
Memory itself is like a shade
None took heed and came to my aid

Bitter is my memory of love labor lost
From my heart it must be tossed
Till all bitterness is paid its cost
For new love itself will defrost
The bitterness I have come to doubt and with happier thoughts embossed

The happy memories that I do hold
Are fading fast as I grow old
But I well remember that our love was bold
A love lived by many but gone untold
Memory itself by time will be cajoled


Poetry has yet to emerge;
my life! where have you been?
This song I sing is not for
the faint-hearted; suicide is not
for children. O where has my beauty
gone? When will I be crushed,


This is the long hallway to
another hallway; a staircase
down to further down. How I
remember the snow's descent
from higher beginnings- some
call it drifting.

Have we forgotten that God exposes
pieces of Himself; a sackcloth of posies,
a naked ray of tumbling light,
the wind-bruised bird diving wildly
through an impossible depth.