february 2021





...here I am writhing on every corner

a gregarious flagellant


calling forth the storm

drawing blood from trees


my back soaked

by some unrelenting truth


by a language stripped of its skin

the interface watching, demanding


why these sins

why these veins


there is no universe anymore

it’s gone


it never was

for how can there be a name


for a shadow that never happened

yet the waters break over my back


and the data, the trees

are so deep, so mystic


my pain becomes my essence

and through the storm


comes the maker of my blood...




...I do not trust my face

I see only a motionless subterfuge


signs of perjured souls

landscapes of distant eyes


approaching then retreating

with the moon at the very centre


of this hollow sapience

this very mind not my own


for I have come from nowhere

and I am drowning in ambiguity


in multitudinous gambits

to just stay alive


to juggle this fatuous nonsense

just one more time


rolling in the sand

and rising covered in purple stars


my face spits its lies at the waves

as the incomprehension rages on


pounding the sand

pounding the mind


then at last the moon makes her move and leaves

dragging my soul behind...




...true art, they say, is to conceal art

to make it flow pure out of the ground


as though whispering to itself

untouch by giants


by these messy aeons that keep reminding us

of the knapping of flints


of the smelting of children

down into bronze thugs


with nothing to do all day

but learn how best to cut


their way into each other’s throats

our mercurial, golden children


their shadows of stone

this heritage, this poignant degradation


that can never just go away

this golden art, this shadow art


a path to untouched ground

to those strange places


where water has a way

of talking to itself...