Four o'clock

Four o’clock in the morning. Reading in the house of the poet.

A moth wanders in the shadows, flickers amidst the books. 

The wind gallops outside. On the sofa I smoke,

inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale inhale

inhale-exhale,

inhale-exhale,

inhale-exhale,

inhale-exhale,

inhale-exhale,

inhale-exhale,

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

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inhale-exhale

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inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

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inhale

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inhale-exhale

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inhale-exhale

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inhale-exhale

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inhale

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inhale

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inhale

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inhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

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inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

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inhale

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inhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

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inhale

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inhale-exhale

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inhale

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inhale

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inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

inhale-exhale

W

Wandering in the night, the air tastes of freedom. Gentle breeze brushing the leaves. High in the sky the moon glances, on the lawn a pair sweats and sighs. They hardly know each other.

She has embarked in her long journey of the flesh. She visits her friend in the small hours, sitting on the verge, fondled by an instant.

The house lies in silent

I shout your name

The night circles you

I shout your name

I love you, I betray you

I shout your name

A monster now

I shout your name

Old and bedraggled

I shout your name

It still burns me

I shout your name

I built hotels for lovers

I shout your name

I fuck everybody around

I shout your name

I hate you, I despise you

I shout your name

Abandoned and sold I should pity you

I shout your name

Your memory scalding my skin

I shout your name

I crawl, I stumble

I gnaw ignominy and servitude

to be near you

Rain

Woman smoking. Waves of heat. The rain should come soon. Hens cackling outside, the maid is trying to corral one for dinner

Woman smoking: inside her the seed is growing. Blue sky, white sheets, high up the ceiling

Woman smoking the seed is growing. A supply of hard bread, flour, pasta and salt comes every week. The words stream out of his mouth. A spider hangs from the ceiling.

Woman smoking, the seed is growing. Thunder precedes the rain, the armadillo strolls around the veranda.

Woman smoking, she has installed a ghost trap. She awaits. The air silvers with light, dogs barking, birds dancing. Earth holed up with water.

Woman smoking seed growing. Up the trees looking down the world, she sees the woman smoking, cowered, bleeding., up the tree only the skies and the birds

Life

The last ten years of her live L. has spent it staring at the ceiling. Embroidery magazines pile up around the bed. L. reads them every morning

Today is Friday. All the dogs are barking. I lie awake. Fear is all over me. I knew they will come in the morning. When they arrived, I felt almost relieved. Their boss comes to my room. He makes me open my nightie: a good look, hey boss. I am ordered to turn around very slowly. After a while we go outside. I am sitting on the table, legs apart. He bangs his truncheon between them, and threaten to punish my brothers. We go away into the night

Unthink

You look around and this sea of negativity buries you in its maelstrom. We survive everyday, thinking: I need to change my bed or get some food or some whatever. You are hooked up to the hill and with your lover roam the street, finally you rest on the railways and while you live your lover dies and that is it. Your story appears in the news. One day an artist finds the newspaper, and writes about you while listening to gypsy music lent by a French girl. The world has become confused and tortuous, (yeah you may like it but is not enough). You want to do work but what is the point of a poetic object? You think about home, and what do you do read: an article about Russia and the demise of the intelligentsia in one away or another, and their trend to take things to the limit of the impossible. What is that: the limit of the impossible? The monkey of the dissenting books must be laughing its guts out under the stairs on hearing you. In the shantytown they are showing ‘The werewolf of Pago Largo’, a theatrical version of a radio program you listen to in the afternoon. Your kind aunt has taken you to see them. The very poor company sweats the lines out in a makeshift theatre under the tropics. She also has taken you to see the Great Leader (at a distance). Forty years later you are reading about a painting called I also saw Stalin. The artists now live in New York. That is home, the werewolf, the glimpse of the Great Leader and the thought of artists living in New York.

Sunday

The woman embroiders in silence. 

We arrive on a Sunday. The airport, a sea of dust, swelters under the midday heat. A dozy soldier flickers through our papers. Our luggage disappears under a hundred helping hands. We do not have enough coins and barter. The road, a riot of red dust, makes the trip slow and heavy. Green, red and blue are the colours of our new country. The city is not far away: at its entrance a flock of women in black shuffle behind a black carriage. A silent weep traverses the air. The horses, old and scrawny, wheeze along the humble road. The dust settles imperceptibly over the women. In the car we feel our slow death has just started.

Our new house sobs with sounds we do not recognise. Mother drifts along the corridors musing about the desert and yesterday’s lovers. We clean, order and cook in silence. The dog grumbles at its meagre fare, the frogs chant in the afternoon. They start slow and small, by dusk a whirlwind of sounds drenches the senses. Mosquito towers rumble over our head.

the universe halted

The universe halted

Black light cruising

you say goodbye in furs

40 degrees in the horizon

black light cruising

you say goodbye in furs gleaming with amphetamine - fears

a whole lotta love

The car parked for three months, a grief memorial. It is her car. I don't care.