We open on this long hallway where everything is blue and so very blue
I am tired of adjectives but blue is never anything else
There are voices along the walls, whispering
I can tell that your hand is shaking as if the chilly air outside is touching you
Our camera moves along, steady and unimpressed
Steady-cams shining along blue floors
and so much more
What you don’t see won’t hurt you
A slow dissolve
All of us stand in the sun looking surprised
We are here where we weren’t before
The camera is blind
and then there is light
and all you see is my voice
and the little strings of heartbeat in black along the sun’s surface
Someone is waiting for you
It is a handheld shot
But held steady
as lovers hold lovers
as you hold your songs
The only movement is the distance
as most pain is
So slow, that you don’t see it move
but only the distance grows closer
How real are films
How real are scripts
The distance grows closer
and into focus
And just when
Whatever you want to say
you say and say and say
and stop right before the end
Love is so strange and painful
But what isn’t
Come sit with me
And try to think that I am here with you
All your little hairs falling over me
On this very black night
with little stars
And all your insecurities
Who are you talking to
Is it me or is it you
Who is speaking
Me or you
Whose face do I imagine falling over mine
And who am I
So many questions you have written for me
But all I want to do is breathe
Breathe heavy and wet over your lenses
like I used to on your genitals all those days ago
and saw you quiver
What queer words we live through
Make me stop
I talk too much
In the season of liquid afternoons
and embarrassed sun beams
life must seem terrible after the last drink.
Nights overstay mornings
and coffee cups steam with white mists.
Remainders of a foggy mountain side;
the wretched taste of local liquor.
There is a tiny space for old rhetoric beside the full window
looking out into stories.
You can sit there and listen to the world weaving fables.
As evening drops in tiny footsteps
an early morning may shine through the gloom of brilliant lanterns
being fireflies across the steps of the hills.
The beautiful hotel owner, with wide deciduous eyes
and a sad sad smile,
ageing her more than the twenty three of her life,
Have you fallen in love yet?
Little insects fill the yellow light streams of bulbs;
little suicidal things, living for god knows what.
At least they have nothing to learn.
Mists fall asleep before the city.
There is only the nocturnal wings of a beetle
knocking against your window.
As you fall asleep, it becomes another night
knocking over the slanting lights of a hill morning:
Lately, I have been craving company.
But when it is near, I question it, and walk away.
Or simply tire it.
Maybe it’s not near at all.
I am short sighted.
I think I have been seeking sex in little violet alleys.
But then, mostly, I just fall asleep
and wake up wanting to be alone
I can only see colour on Sundays.
There’s no unhappiness,
It’s a luxury for good times.
But the jar is empty.
Winds in a bottle don’t blow.
I don’t want anyone else to look like me.
I don’t want anyone to be as disgusting and as odd,
On some days and nights, before falling asleep.
I do not want anyone else to have felt like a little girl,
Sleeping in his lover’s arms,
Being kissed on button noses, licked like mushrooms.
I want no one else to have felt like a boy, looking at his feet in a professor’s room,
Wishing for rest, and a womanly warmth,
That has been missing from her chest.
Feeling like an unfinished portrait on summer mornings,
An unique failure, after afternoon siestas.
I am not an individual;
I don’t claim that myth.
The mythical one, walking through legions of stories,
Being didactic and true.
I think I am one of many,
A tiny story
Where I am all the characters and none,
All the time and never.
I am just me
And no one else is.
What dreams may come of afternoon naps
rolled in balls of fat and sweat,
altogether much too disgusting, for anyone but myself.
Bringing together broken lips
and lisping pictures drawn in music
all through rainy days with a bright sun, shining golden and dead.
The sun on one’s back in little drops,
old and older memories, spilled on the page
as some forgotten story roams around in picture books
that are copied, verbatim, from the head.
See, I only draw in the past, and write about it now.
And later, I search for all the nows going away to distant places, where my lost pictures wait
in diligent silence.
I have lost so many poems to that place.
So many pictures and afternoon regrets.
I hate Fridays.
They always bring the anticipation of the weekend
and the dread of the Monday together.
The Friday nights in bed, or elsewhere,
are a little dead and gone.
The alcohol goes up and down in instants,
and conversations drain towards losses and laziness.
I like Mondays.
They stink of work and thought
and make tomorrow and tomorrow better.
They make me want to leave home with a packet of cigarettes
and a circus in my pockets
in a two man band with an old lover,
rolling through a made up world of beautiful and polite people….
It begins after the stop.
Unprovoked and unmentionable blackness in a country of perpetual summer,
Forgive Forgive Forgive.
Forget all and all
The summer sun the deaths of dark girls the sun shining
Punishing Punishing Punishing.
Forget futile life on the street
Melting and muted under
With a tincture of flesh and soft blood
Like black death on a white
The moon is love in the land of the sun.
Sun shining bright, like death out of sight.
And it ends without
Look at the evening falling off ladders all over the world.
Have you seen the little stars, dropping off the sky, on new moon nights?
We are spilling secrets now, inside our minds
with new old friends sitting by our side.
I like you, little friend born in the heat of May,
but a little white, and a lot of night, inside your head.
From faces, born little stories, that go on and on inside caves
away from the city,
where you sit opposite me
share the stories of our loves and lotteries.