They were parodying an artist I hate, and I hated | their parody | The trees lay down, their roots in the air | waiting for our minds to feed them | with tiny portions of mercury | we ladled from an ancient pool | bamboo dipper left on a stone | a very huge light | trapped in a shaking hazelnut | Kindness, in other words, was coming | and it was not | as they expected | Stripping off | layer after layer | of brute | to arrive, at last, at a kernel | of civilisation | the Mozart on the train | the skin wrapped in the core | the nightingale in the skyscraper

Goldfish in the pool | Locate where the moment is weakest | the links between | the Vulcanian beat of Carmelite Factory and the mellow | jewel of the lamp in the bowels | of your wine glass | and go | Shall we find another party? | Smooching | desperately | on the cusp of a terrible boredom | a vortex at the heart of Sunday | where the adults roll | blind and secure in their knowledge | low on mystery | high on rationale | Across the bridge of the fingertips — really, it’s not far to go — a new | mood is waiting | Lift the moon | on your tongue | hear the hum | of the elevators working | through the early hours | rising and falling | to arouse the forest | and tell a fresh tale | the trawl and toil | of the skyscraper | at the heart | of the nightingale

 


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