Tag Archives: utopia

Not a Question

She shows her self                                    To those who will listen

She talks                                                       To those who will see

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Still waiting for the Barbarians

 

O, Boring rhetoric speakers

With your government made laws.

We all know already

All that you have to say

And loose ourselves in thoughts

But today-

 

Assembled in a waiting room

A forum with only one

White window, only one

Question – When will they come?

We are waiting for a sign

– O Barbarians!

 

You shall be so dazzled, confused even

By empty streets and squares.

Only ministers / predators parading

In emeralds and togas carrying

Their canes of gold

While we are waiting here

– Waiting to unfold.

 

When the night is moving closer

Our excitement grows, but then

We are dazzled, confused even, there are

No barbarians coming, men tell us

Who come in from the borders,

Waiting as well.

 

And when the night keeps falling

Borders, mayors, home secretaries, the Queen herself

What are we going to do now?

 

She walks home from the city’s main gate

Cleans her crown of jewels for auctioning, and we,

I guess we’ll slowly leave this room

Maybe leave one or two behind.

 

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The Devil Lived in a Doomed Mood

 

No body can strap body parts together as he can.

He is a reward-drawer who believes in smart-trams

and draws you spam-maps.

 

He fools you into straw-eating warts and when you scream

for more he is the one who brings you plate after plate of more

erecting with his left hand columns, castles.

 

He knits and stinks and peels sleep off you

when you need it the most. A pubic hair falls

off his finger and starts its fight with feathers.

 

He is a redivider, a petrifier and he speaks backwards.

But maybe one day we will see through and sum up:

 

The devil lived in a doomed mood

That we can do without. We fooled him

with sensuousnes(s) or stayed forever quiet.

Anger? ’tis safe never. Bar it! Use love

(or: Evoles ut ira breve nefas sit; regna

Which means more or less the same).

 

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Without Armour

A tin soldier lies in my bed, the last man standing

On a crusade; Denying flesh and blood,

But if f I am white then he is red.

I throw down-duvet over, not to divide,

I creep under as well, it is a cold night and

The boiler is bust but we are two.

Muscles are what he claims to be,

Well, at least it is better than steel

And I still drink that smell of sweat.

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A Pagoda on outer love street

No prayers just womb,
rhythm and truth
unsweetened
alive on the unmade bed

No corners
no speakers
time is an oval
our bodies, the harps,
existing in trinity with the eternal

round pagoda

No padding
no typing
just drums
and nipples and fleshy
thorn-less desert plants

and flesh
and seeds
carried by mind
and wind
through a chink

in eternally round pagoda

Separate flesh from bone
lick your greasy fingers
explore the regions of my skull
stumble into remote
Territory
and nowhere you will find
the burning flaming mountain

Excavate my chest
and fall down in incompleteness
carved in cotton
made of memory
and wondrous astonishment
and not much else
but you will find
Love

In all its forms
and with all its
accompanying pleasures, complications,
ecstasies and frustrations,
glories and disappointments

True love, infatuation, lust,
Lost love, jealousy, enduring love… Love
The Sun Shouts

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Do it

Re-fined re-signed re-designed
formation phalanx drag
another stick to the forte,
fornicate
and drown in formic acid

See streets
see aunts (convoys)
and ants that forsake forests

Heavens turn red
in anger
or alit with our forte
Litmus is proof

Hypnotic rain polluted clouds
move away too
towards
evening light enshrined

Re-fined re-signed re-designed
formation phalanx puncture
another swelling cyst,
they think,
rarely,really, but
congratulate themselves,
subtle as packaged milk

Hear cavity
see clang
smell freshwater fish
without a wrinkled nose

Be smooth
make sense
be honest
be dense

Heavens turn red
with love
and alit with our forte

Litmus is proof:
Outside the brackets
life is

Aflame
afloat in a thimble
in afterglow
– ashore
examine the tissue
of a living body
bisected, buried

Undig me
unpick me
take me home

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On the edge of time

Don’t you see
It is ever-changing
I am not
the one I was
I will not be
the one I am
and that is why

I can hold on
to my hopes
body spiralling upwards
following the inner-child
the mind-butterfly
weaving frantically
a new me
resting in-between
your legs around
body spiralling upwards
ever-present lover-being
just be with me now
here
is all I ask
and do not
ask of me
to stay this way

It is only one of the plateaus
where
we could freeze and make our bed
cover ourselves
with duvet-branches
and promises
of stagnation

We could stay curled up close
to the cliff-wall and
each-other and not dare
to look down
like
wing-clipped birds
in the cold of the night

Or f*ck that fear
throw a stone towards ground
and look down to
echoing sound
hold hand-wings as we move
in the other direction

Stand up
See
cliff wall become our ground

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Soft stones

Strawberries sitting on hillsides, it is

just after a train crash and

all is silent when they meet

a phone rings but he does not pick it up.

 

She de-ices winter also, claims

nothing but that it does not matter if

to him The Milky Way leads nowhere

and bells sound mornings in.

 

Heaps are growing on ground, again,

and somewhere mid-air

silvery shades dance as she puts his hands

to span her stretched navel.

 

All the distances he ever walked join

one another and two-quarters

of a circle further down he takes

pictures of a scream, emerging skull.

 

Suns still set and toilets still flushed

as she made waves, again and again,

squeezing sand through an hourglass

the mother became.

 

It had nothing to do with them then;

Crashes and Quakes and Faint

suggestions in creamy bathroom mirrors

he never mentioned, and she

never told him about pebbles

screaming to her from beaches,

curling up between them in bed.

 

Now growing a stubble he leaves for days.

And she sits around in a big gown

listening … as the paperboy makes his round.

It might have got something to do with

the circles in which we stand, helpless.

 

The last breath of a child,  the two

of them there, left behind.

He closes his dental practice.

She goes back on the pill.

He misses the pain he causes

more than the teeth to fill.

She wishes there was something

else than time to kill.

 

She puts her hand to the radiator

but it is always cold.

She tries to call him

who does not answer

ignoring her breath

like the ice ferns.

In her dreams he is a stone.

 

She stays inside, fills a thermos

to see her through the winter

watches millions of flakes fall

yet fail to cover ground.

His hibernation is in skin

that razors can not touch.

Trembling under cherry trees

his memories refined.

 

She used to pose to make turbans turn

and flip flop across any market

in no time to embrace him in words

about mangoes, cardamom and

wherever next to go.

 

Autumn leaves fall again, paint vivid

premonitions, touch faces as they pass

not picking up on such simple clues

with disarranged hair, dishpan hands.

His bike is in the shed.

All needed is some air.

She is still, there.

Only the cupboards are talking

helped by a perfect Johnny Walker

to her head against the table.

 

His head turns at the traffic lights

where a woman in a pink over-coat

crosses the street, slowly

before through the cold she floats.

He is frozen, feeling sick,

and starts to melt

then and there

In another part of town

white sheets wave the winds

to move on by.

 

They are nearly there

(time is a ring, an oval)

Two ice-cubes sliding down

the slow unlearning-curve of life.

In the midst of it all

she is shaken

fumbling through the debris

looking up, on her floor

stands not the paperboy.

He takes her hand and leads her

(with thermos and two cups and saucers)

up steep narrow stairs.

Outside, lifting his chin to the air

he throws the question out –

Where does heaven begin?

But is already there.

 

The sound of dainty china

She says I am only starting to fathom

then lets out a laughter to share.

A child is walking now, slowly,

along a beach, zigzag

between stones that are orange

then throws one in the air.

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A blue bus

A blue bus of red Indians
are dragging along a Greek God
and all that they touch becomes.

Angels and dogs protected by a cactus
drink whiskey and marrow
and hammer away on a cross.

Opened back alleys and closed chests
garnished with white feathers, a lizardskin
is what they want to raise to the sky:
‘Give a microphone, expose to the Eye’

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Big houses with big yards

Dark waters of heavens
cringed by fog.
No sound no whisper
no secret snog.

Big collections with big meanings,
dark alleys, suffocating smog,
no wind, no weathercock,
no hidden song.

Big men with big visions,
light memories of childhood
reduced en vogue.
No garden, no Eden.

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