While hyperboling

I live in Metaphor

with a singular-pith Parabola

that arches over many an articulated Hall

which first counterstand one another then

melt to the sombre state of None.

There I understand that my You leaves me

alone only at We-Zone,

otherwise even I am not.

Three Flying Pigs

Last night as I was
drawing the curtain down
to get a proper bedtime dark
my eyes encountered three pigs
pink all right
but levitating towards my site
levitating faster than fast.

Are you angels, or are you spies?
I’ve outspoken all the prayers and all the lies.
What do you want to hear? I asked
but the three flying pigs
just giggled and spat at me.

Oh this must be a wrong address
I guess, surely you meant to meet
any of my, say, uncles.
They have lots to confess I bet
they’re a bunch of human mess!

Take the one who lives closest
he’s a stock-broker, you can’t miss
his palace home two blocks on the left.
Though, to be perfectly honest
he’s nothing compared to the devil
his youngest brother is,
a real sunuvabitch, and a joint smoker.
Do oh do take him!

But the three flying pigs
just lit up three assorted cigs
and hissed through their
little teeth
the word informer.

Now that really hurt my pride
for it’s not made of steel
and it might take donkey’s years
to get it healed.

Apparently this was the three ugly
pink creatures’ ride, a fun where
I was a victim of the mockers.
I wouldn’t have that.
So, having gotten pretty mad
I yelled at them you three intruding fuckers!
Hiss and bully around
until you’re dead rotten!

Now they seemed to be waiting just for this
as right as I said that there came
their long united piss
and I was not missed.

/16 July 2003/

the temptation of meaning

as in the sky,
like birds.

as in the woods,
like cracks.

what is it that dances in between the ladders?
with twirling toes and flipping shirts
with twinkling vowels and revving consonants, sound.

as in the streets,
like steps.

as in the clocks,
like tick-tack.

what is it that alters when it alteration finds?
with dead eyes and arcane thoughts
with mute tongue and stony throat, dark.

like night,
as in solitude.

like meaning,
as in words.

what do you hear,
in mine?

/01 july 2005/

The Ring Game

I thought I’d play the game
of turning the ring again,
for it might work out this time
I hoped, shivers down the spine.

But the ring engaging me to think
longingly of my be-loved
always turns the magic wrong.
I’ve been seeing jackals
upon each closing of the eye.
I’ve been laying down
with heart-charlatans.

And there are never any flowers
in this vase I wear.
I guess I’m past the season.
Once again, or forever?

I’ve tried to calm down
many times, many lies
must be brides to this single silver.
It seizes my finger raw
like some jaded paranoia.
I look at it, and it looks back.
It locks the finger and it locks the neck.

Between the moments of enclosure
I tend the few gay memories left,
tempted to test the ring game anew,
the wish-haunted fool.

/08 June 2004/

The Place of Silence

The ruffled rustle
of the coloured leaves
laying decayed on
the peaceful ground.
The forlorn traveller sun
tries to wake them up.
But the more it is trying,
the more they seem to mind.
Meanwhile, those which’ve
by then grown tired
on the trees around
are falling down
to become an evening cover
of all the stiff remains
laying underground.
No one lives there anymore –
they have all gone.
Where to?
Who knows?
Not you,
not I.
You talk to them
but they don’t hear you.
They can’t –
your voice expelled them afar.

As you walk through the paths
among the homes of the gone
you become one of them
in a sense that you
no more care about
the earthly life,
the living,
the loving,
there’s nothing
on your mind
except the silence
around and the silence
inside.
Then your foot
makes an improper move
and what your eyes reveal
is a dead forgotten fly.
Even that doesn’t make you
any other
from your silence-fellows
whose bodies have
accustomed to your presence
by now.

Another leaf has decided
it was the highest time
to get on the ground.
The home tree drops
it down.
It’s falling
like the tears from your eyes,
sliding down your cheeks,
stopping at the chin,
then letting the breeze
carry them far
and farther –
they’re leaving you behind.
How far have they gone?
Who knows?
Not you,
not I.
Your sight doesn’t search,
your mind doesn’t mind,
your self
sheds a sigh,
your soul doesn’t smile
at the place
shattered by
the cry of the tall shadows
around,
beneath,
beyond
your sight.

My Encounter With a Man of a Colossal Wisdom

As I stopped and seated myself down
on a bench to take a pause,
a man approached me, his face’s
weariness subdued to wisdom glittering
in his colossal eyes.
He waited for no signal and
permitted himself a performance
wordy and sad.
What he said went straight to the point
and directly to my mind
where it’s left an undelectable mark.
He said, I see…

… your dreams lay scattered and weak on the ground,
as you’ve made them out of your mind.
It’s a fate what is in charge of the control
over your life now.
The times of a dream drive are left behind.

There is, he went on, a track
coined in the world for everyone,
the track that, if found and followed,
will bring you to the meaning of your life.

To discover your track, you’ve got to
be able and willing to read certain signs
that are being shifted down by God.
Your choice of destiny makes it
pass the chance, you’re keeping yourself
off the path.

And so the person you perform
is a grown-up dropping the dreams down
to be stepped on by the passers-by,
while the child in you is quietly crying at the sight.

The man, though a stranger to me, was right.

My … Self

When a day meets a night hour
and my estranged self seeks rest,
inside I know best
that it’s not to be found
in my supposed nest.

Neither in any place
beyond myself.
My sleep is hindered,
yet the eyes don’t protest,
offering no tear to waste
upon the unforgotten case.

And a poor soul says
a prayer for itself,
though no words are there
in my deserted sphere.