Wheels rolling downhill, but no one near | He smells nice, the depraved emperor, what can you do | with what you feel? | Hold your face | close to his scented chest, hear him murmur | lullabies his mother taught him, how deep | his voice… || Distantly related to a nightingale | wandering the forest at night | with my forgotten father | small hand in large hand | peeping in | at peasant homes | shiver at the blue-white axe blade | suckling from a tree-stump | in breathless moonlight | everything breathes or holds | its breath…

Old love affairs | Too many things to stop or make a world | Dead parts of the year, the only | one in the office, the carcase of red deer | rotting by the photocopier, dull | air, stale green | tinsel hung | for festivities already over | and the moon, that ancient | monster | swallowing cities, era | by era | toying with time and spirits | and the metal | bubbles of ships | floating on lit waves | in scarred | seaport towns | Will he ever | come for you again, that | god of the moon and seas? | to give you | his gift of unseemly behaviour and disturbed graves? | his blessing of precious spittle and the comfort | of little shoe-makers under softly | sighing stars | his fresh | crush | his eyes with their attractive flaws, his overwhelming | desire to be emperor?


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