She went out looking for fun | but she found something else | In other news… | Button the snowflakes one to one | under their pink skin, the white horses | don’t look so white | but that isn’t | what I noticed when they galloped | across the room that evening | She had her story ready | just like you do | and when the phone rang | she took it | just like you do | it’s only | they’re different phones | and different voices | on the other end | The skyscrapers | knelt and peered | into the car | as we passed | and I saw a matador | on the pavement | in a golden suit | black montera in his hand | and under his chaquetilla | a plain white camisa | the headlights | shone right in his eyes | so he flinched and frowned | he had a cigarette hanging loosely from the corner | of  his mouth | and a girl in a long | purple dress | of silk | was talking on her mobile | he had no | sword | It ended | faster than they expected | “what?” still forming | in their mouths | slipping off into | the invisible trail | of sense they never | get to make now | Others are sweeping the streets | working in offices | and the city has no mystique | for them, the towers | never kneel | Undo | the blizzard | flake by flake | if you can | get naked | as she did | Now she’s lying in a grave | and she doesn’t know | the name on the grave | next to her | We didn’t hear the news | for ages | and the night | grew more and more confused | the pleasure | turned to hard work | spending hours and hours | on the bed | by the shore | disentangling | dead mermaids | from our nets | She lost the thread | just like you will | and she ended | badly | just like I will | But what a thunder | those horses make | stampeding from head to head | and from their risen mouths they say | through great yellowing teeth | It’s just a matter of time | But then, what isn’t?

A car headlights shone in my eyes | half blinding me | You poured a long dark wine | in that dress | it was | one of those nights | there were bound to be flowers | and fireworks of rose and silver | flashing across the circle of heaven | dealers | drops | even gangsters | fidgeting to the desperate euphoria | of their music | and the angels | with the dirty wings | flapped around in the square | Dawn by the Cafe Real | on a dirt road | who wants | to greet it? | We thought we were strolling, didn’t realise | we’d already | started to run | And when God called | we didn’t answer | we were having | so much fun…

 


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

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