Archives for category: Poetry

Ghosts of oil | smeared on the silver | ground | of a basement garage || a map of | excess | leakage | and flaws || Lovers | trying to | form | each other || Edges | blur || The connection of | potential fire | holds them but | not everyone, not all of the time, may | bear | hazards in mind

They drove out and sunlight flooded the car as they came above-ground || She put the music on and their memory | turned into a road | and the road | didn’t turn into a | memory…

 


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, July 2012)

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We live in cities | You’ve never heard their names | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3 | In our millions | a hundred jewels of small fires | to go round | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3 | We die in hospitals | slowly | across the years | Flyovers | Subways | Lift-shafts | Highways | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3, 4 | We are not | waiting for you | In our millions | shadow gathering | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3, 4 | We live in cities | with different reasons | for war | and different | figures moving in our dreams | weed fronds | waving to and fro | in dark bays | below busy shipping lanes | to the rulers’ drives | of dirty tides | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3, 4 | We live in tower blocks | contract diseases | with ancient names | You’ve never heard their voices | We live in cities | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3 | We run in gangs | We speak in tongues | you don’t know | exist | Makes of cars | sweet wrappers | trucks at lights | scripts you can’t decipher | Demographic | We make new sounds | when we make love | new sounds | old sounds | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3 | We drift through streets | under polluted trees | We stand in doorways | sweat in summer | and in winter | we freeze | Demographic | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3 4 | We mound like sugar | beet and like | cabbages | we rest quiet | like medicine balls | in nocturnal gymnasiums | We grow | like crops | like crops | we are sown | and harvested | Demographic | We collect in crowds and from crowds | when the time comes | we slip away | Demographic | Demographic | We watch planes go over | We work in shops | and bars | factories | offices | we cross dusty | streets in summer, and in winter | we cross | streets piled with snow | Demographic | We gather to wed | we gather to mourn | Demographic | We drift out into yards | the corners of chain-link fences | the Red Room’s windows | the garage door | we follow foreign stars | on Twitter | we follow local parades | Demographic | We smoke cheap cigarettes | and watch the trains leave | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3, 4 | We live in cities | You’ve never heard their names | Others go before us | and after us | others come | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3, 4 | We are alive | in our millions | a handful of small fires | to go round | You’ve never heard our names | Demographic | Demographic 1, 2, 3, 4 | 5

 



from the series method | dry conditions
(on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2012:
this poem, July 2014)

Scattered | our enemies | Long | branches of blood | in Chartres, on Instagram | this | kind of sky | only a loophole | in sleep | Smite | Smite | Smote | Smite | Smitten

Semites | Whey-faced | Walloons, Tasmanians with their haunting eyes, Yankees | Jutes with sheep and curds, soft-voiced | Thais, expert with mopeds | Pearls falling | loose from a necklace | the necks | how they bow, and twist | how bare | Smote | Smite | Smite | And you, barefoot in the evening, among daisies | You, and I, and the others… | No going | halves, now | but taking all | shall we | gather by the river, gather | while we still can | one blood under one house | and shall we | be sure | to know the signs | we make ourselves | so when our eyes open | after sleep | we may still | be?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2014)

Rogue state | Dogged by ill-health he sought lodgings… in the heat, the cat snarls, can’t reach her fleas | You hear the missiles, feel their slipstreams | in landslide weather | can’t sleep | in the white nights | at the barriers | wait in the car as the train goes past | the gendarmes tell you | there is no need for alarm | the water on the strawberries | But the whine of the motor | the engines igniting | the air needs to move | he can’t sleep | the dog rests | in the cool shade of the silos | the tourists drift away | town empties | it’s the heat | you wake | to the smart click of the timer | my screen flickers | the information starts to leak | the little cars near the church | with POLIZEI | so we decide to turn back | the migraines worsen | they are posting notices | too much of you | Very tired, irritable | but can’t sleep | the cake went to waste | put the infinite on hold | By 1907, harassed by creditors, worn out by threats, she fled… the Federales | They were dredging the river | so we cancelled our walk | the camera came on | he lacked the will to continue | in the freezing cold | dogs dying in the street | the first indications | the same old same old | we felt so tired | the air-con was broken | the searchlight from the police | helicopter | the passing of a star | the rumours of cholera | the marshals usher you | away | When the network goes down | part of you is relieved | in breaking news | the suicide pact | the train strike is on | the sound in her head | was the ringing of an anvil | then we missed our flight | a problem with the visa | Lazio had won | and their fans celebrated | all night | we couldn’t sleep | you tried to deny it | in the powerful storm | the lines came down | at cherry-blossom time | in the middle of a speech | the screen went dead | the music was sombre | everything felt | as if it was wrapped in polythene | with a gag in my mouth | She couldn’t reach her hotel | and had nowhere to stay | the Carabinieri were pointing | making signs | the quiet was huge | the shadow of the cloud

 


from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)
(this poem, July 2017)

Market corrections | Another argument, who is cuter | Jiff or Boo? | Rails round the day, moving on small oiled wheels like furniture | to hold you, to be a man | Blood’s | mortgage | paid off | so | slowly | rise up and then | in a slick of mud | landslide lounge | slip back | How to Fail in 43 volumes | the hair on your tongue as you make love | An area of | cold shadow | no secrets left | in Area 51 | Memory, autopsy | and Scorpio on the move | The new phenomenon | Death of the sun

A pot of phrases, put your hand in, take your pick | A part of the sky with the percentile moon | A bad mood like finding lizard eggs | in your bed | How was your holiday? | Oh, it was amazing! | A secretive glee when the matador | is hoiked into the crowded air | gore already messing | up his suit of lights | Coming to the end of the summer sales | the lease | on sleep | running down | Waiting for the police | the same old suite of shadows | what have the thieves taken, after all? | Limping on my wheels | squeaking | called thinking | rolling on | We’ll start with the lips, then move to the breasts | and just hope | the rest will follow…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2014)

Blocks of pure space | in between | Cubes of thoughts | Pristine, in a series | one after the other | Noise of erosion | a rustle | a scud | a beat | Position of rain | Nibble of teeth | Flutter of paper | Drone of drive | Quiet ink

Oasis serving | separate deserts | Lone survivor | of many words | Perfect cubes | of dreams | Space of night | in between | each dream | A thread of memory | attached to each scene | Into the eyes’ maze | the lonely forest | wanders…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2015)

The carousel of the station unfurls journeys | It is also a box of fireworks | releasing thousands of rockets per day

Everyone here is secretly hunting | but they don’t know they are hunters | Consequently, they migrate within themselves without being aware | that their quest is driving them from shore to sea, from the sea to new land | Some wake with elk in snow, some with airport lights in a humid climate | They think they know why | Living is no error | but it has no right

In varnished offices, decorated with Persian rugs and intriguing artifacts | psychoanalysts are drilling deep wells in search of the perfect waters of dreams | Often, their patients use stations

Covered by the things of sight, the other things | congregate and float like droplets of phosphorus in the ocean | or in mute herds | roam and, when rain approaches | grow still and patient and wait

The method of connection and the spirit of connection are separate and related | The spirit will guide the method | the method give succour to the spirit | How you connect, why you connect, what you choose to connect | these will shape you | But who will hold the map of all you connect? | This will be one night sky among many constellations | and in the morning | it will be different

At the centre of the desert of her days | an oasis has formed | Under tall date palms | there are peach trees | monkeys and hummingbirds | It is an eye | that opens and gazes up at the moon, at the sun | She wanders the desert and only occasionally stumbles on the oasis | refreshes herself then wanders again | losing her way | and the winds reshape the sands of her days | into dissimilar formations | tending to loss | eroding the paths and, with the paths, memory | The water is incredibly pure | Her oasis | so little visited | is a place for parables and prayer | or to lie very quietly in the shade and to dream

The world is one head | a mighty skull that can face in a single direction only | A honeycomb of tunnels, made by thoughts, connects people | but no one has a map of all the tunnels | and no one can see out of the world’s eyes | summon its giant gaze | or guess why it so solemnly and persistently | faces what it faces | rather than another landscape

Across another landscape | a lonely magician trudges | inventing new names for the seas of the moon | while bouncing at his hip | hung from his belt in a clay flask | his genie bitches and whines | craving a drink | distilled from the nectar of rare Egyptian roses | and unable to settle | missing, as he does, a certain oasis | in a young woman’s dreams | where the waters are calm and pure | and, years ago, he fell sleep | for the first time in centuries | and in the morning | woke and was the same and no one

 


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, July 2015)

The ghost who | holds your body in their | cooping hands | or | carries it from a bamboo cage | strung through their belt | That great | spirit of years and whispers | for whom no | edge | quite fits | how it | frightens us with its | solitudes and | drifts of | signs and silences | the | city, the | love, all the things we | think about and | the haunting | presence who | thinks

Who | flits through the mirror, what | tiny birds of | song and gesture? || Car, map, key, door, all the objects | we possess | rotate and swirl | in the grasp of | powerful signs, but only | the dead ever really | materialise completely, and no one | knows the | home of storms

 


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

I’m talking about the things to come

Found a frontier in my | heart || Grasslands | plains | places no human being had ever | been / and we | walked into them

And in the glove compartment, a gun | a valley, the sound of | water, sky full of | white clouds | a crack running through the sun, split in a | broken mirror

She was sitting up under the sheets, I think we’re becoming | friends more than lovers, now  Know all these streets and rooms, and knowledge makes them | ghosts, without | life

Orders of power, the forts we’re asked to carry || But the past is a wilderness, too | there, things are | unprecedented | In a chemical chateau, in | powder and wigs, silk and lace, look from the window of a | little-visited tower, all the facts and the theories | melt into | the haze of a | distant horizon

The future, too, isn’t that a frontier? | Sure, but | everyone’s rushing so fast to | settle there, and I | have always feared and hated | crowds

PARABLE | They loved walls and objects | so their hearts began to fill with such things | stones | minerals | cool | sculptures [fine vehicles] | And this stuff they acquired | cluttered their souls | Their frontiers | were something they bought | Consuming, storing, displaying | objects | they were the curators of their own | hearts | Life was a form of collection | their spirits were vast museums | and the exhibits in their museums | were walled into | separate categories || They nested and archived | many beautiful, irreplaceable things | in basements, and | no one ever saw them | again || All the storms turned to stone, the rivers to | enamel | their daughter to | crystal || Whole cities were engulfed by certainty, entire nations | put in galleries | The god of dolls lived in the museum, and people | ceased moving and thinking || Eventually, there was no need to | venture out of their hearts at all | there was no | exterior || It was airless and nothing moved, but it was home, and they knew | all the streets and rooms

Each moment a jail | Overcrowded | Fetid with the | sorrows we cannot avoid || Each thought a | claustrophobic capsule | drifting through | space | a gleaming | coffin | others | made for you || Safe in | mass-produced dreams | we await the wilderness of a far-off time | a posed | threat || Meanwhile, sparkling gun-men mount up and | ride towards anywhere

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: July, 2012)

First you borrow, then you beg
— Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

I look at you in this way because of the earth, later, and small hazelnuts | soon, almost now | Those people | who burned alive in the cinema | because they were not close enough to the doors with the red | EXIT above them, they looked in the same way | as I look, sometimes, I’m sure | My eyes | have seen more than my memory | may recollect | now I am certain | although I don’t fit in the suitcase yet, I will | and the injustice I once believed in | the inequality | the parts not fitting | the imbalances | will flatten to a state | where my body will be folded once, twice, perhaps several times | and my head twisted round to look backwards | chin to nape | knees tucked up to breast | and I will fit into that oblong shape | and the pungent scent of stale air and leather, with no sound of violins, but with | long stray blonde hairs | will be a cosmos for me | and I will be made, and we will all be made | just right for the world | Once you understand | life | you will see | the world has a knack for solving this sort of puzzle | sorting | into the a grand impartiality | those close to the EXIT door | and those a little further away | watching the film with the white dish, the five hazelnuts on it | and parsing their cares and desires, if they are not lost | in the story | where I look at you in this way | the way you don’t like, but don’t understand, either | a strand of your long red hair, your curling | black hair | tickling the skin of my face | and the stars, and the talk, and the endemic | injustice | segues to the end in tears and Persia

 


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