Ignored out of history | they still make a happy sound sometimes | You do not count yourself among their number | not quite, not yet | They are building the bridges, repairing the roads | they have difficult tasks, and will work hard to attain their goals | they research Brahms, publish a masterpiece | They are so famous, but the fame | begins to grow onerous | it’s always either | never enough or too much | An old man sieving for gold by a river | an old woman, perched on a barrel, smoking a pipe | Along the stream, a single kingfisher strikes its electric course | specimen of a species, also genus, order… | Il faut être absolument moderne | and they are | and they are like anyone, they can look a little inane sometimes | in bad photographs or when they’re sleeping | And then the part comes | no one can manage | a role | impossible to imagine | but who can resist the terrible charms | of the sinister impresario? | A mountainous silence builds | just inside the care home | and toiling towards its peak | the crumbling mountaineers | peer and wonder…

The laughing avalanche | The grumpy tsunami | Denizens of the Silver Age | feel the gradual diminishment | of their place | the acceptable | substandard performance | the cheesy alloy | the smaller circle | Whole nations cast under a spell | fiscal wands being waved left, right and centre | the tubas and parping trumpets | of a magical band | led by a hippo and three sleazy cheetahs | we could watch them all day | we will watch them all day | Down the Romantic corridor | you smartly pace | driven | willful | masterful | So, goodbye: there | you’ve gone | Cotton wool beards and storms | that sound like giants’ snoozing | stuff the darkness with a velvet crush | and rolling round the interior of the dream | all the spinning tops are rocking to their final rest | When will the dwarfs awake? The evil queen | get her comeuppance? | You’re running out of money, but I can’t give you a loan | and you say that you’re joking | but we don’t think it’s funny | and if it isn’t funny | it isn’t a joke | so you’ll die | You think I’m joking? | Fragments of dialogue and theories about stars | drop like burnt crows at dusk | In the beige light | of an Alzheimer’s sun | the TV is still on | but no one is looking | and the night spreads and trembles | like an aging population | covering the world, while the young | bury themselves in their new fascinations


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