Arid, but the sweetness falls | Those were our orchard epidemics | saviours for our dreams and futures | Sentences only beginning | the convenient void never even seen | yet ever-present: look | see where it flies | Rotten | right at the heart | of the molecules, the “setting in” | right at the start | at the conception | an angel | with wilting lilies | moulting wings | Heavy traffic | so we get there late | so the party’s over | so the sleep | is moored | in a darkness waiting for an epithet | the beautiful aperçu | swallowed like a jewel of insects | by predatory prose | Complex | situation | Simple | solutions | You may not believe me | the blissful | possibility of doubt | outraged our rise | after the exile and the misunderstanding | the tiny flies | floating in lukewarm mojitos | but this is truly a classic condition | and will be | until we rid our steps of paradise | and learn to love | the dead time after cancelled flights | Convenient, as I said | the poems’ | outage of mysterious inks’ | bright shadows | our doused spirits | blazed in impossible materials | And so the bugs died | in a flash of soda and mint | and the inconceivable scenes | flicker like scenarios | from unrealised plays | over and over | again | for what is | effectively | an eternity | No chance of an ending | where the syntax comes to this | never even seen | and not existing: look | here it is

Michael, from the Greek and later | and earlier | from a buried bible of allusions | and distorting | x-rays of memory | revealing hidden bones | constructing from the graves of arks | the arks of graves | Sweet tooth | follows the line of sugar on | to the next wanting | the craving for order, the false command of joy | a wholly frivolous orgy | conjured from a rank desire | stopped in our tracks | the needle lifted | our time | shot to pieces and the quests and tasks | So the party | was yet to start | and we set out | driving through sleet and snow | the wipers fanning our city to smears | of glimpsing and oblivion | mostly oblivion | for now | We should have left | earlier | that was what we ended up | deciding | and it seemed bathetic | crude | our subtle life | reduced to the manipulative gloss | of fiery headlines | STRANDED IN PARADISE | an incipient migraine | a sense | of sheer waste | beer warming in unopened crates | our baroque bodies with their gilts and sheen | cramped down by crude pains | limited to melodies and aches | a tiny, repetitive song | sticking in our decaying teeth | reminding us, once more, we’d lost the ground | we’d gained | and had failed yet again | to get away in time | and were again too weak, and too late | to escape the clutches | of the evil | Baron Chocolate

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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