Sunday, October 16, 2011


for George

In this world
where nothing exists
where everything other
is meaningless,
one should learn
to gather mint.
Notice the tint
of the setting sun
on a seagull's wing --
white with a touch of pink.
Accept that there is no link
between is and was...
and -- every loss
is haphazard and free.
And floating, atomised
in the void
you realize that
the tragedy lies
not in death
but in its senselessness:
whether you are shoved into earth
where worms dance around your coffin,
or are burned to ash,
it all comes down to one --

Thursday, June 23, 2011


Take your meat
hanging between your loins -
limp or hard.
Take the hands
eager to count the coins.
Take your heart.

Take your doubt
nesting inside your brain.
Take your fears.
Repetition, pretense
bring no tears.

Take your passion
to escape through the meat.
In your best hour your resemble
an ape.
An ape in heat.

You don't have what it takes
to bare your soul.
Take your words,
your cries,
your eyes.
Take it ALL!

Tuesday, May 31, 2011


It’s not you.
It happens every time.
It isn’t your piercing, pulsating cock,
or your blood-soaked, tender heart.
or your hands –
so definitely coarse and hard,
or your eyes – naked,
desperate for the cover of night.
It is life that passes through
like a needle of light
and leaves one ripped, rippled,
plastered into immortality.

It’s not you. I’ve seen them before,
almost all –
the little, primitive Hamlets
scraping their brains against the wall
inside which they buried their heart.
The strapping bulls full of bravado
of having spilled blood and other people’s tears,
I’ve seen them disintegrate into sleep
where their faces forgetting them betray fear.
It’s not you.
You see, it’s not you.
It’s Life that you fear.

It happens sometimes
when you least expect
suddenly and forever.
like a fisherman pierces
fish lip with his hook
life pierces you
and lets you, the fish,
back into the water
so that you spill your blood
into its indifference
and teach it
to speak of love.

and no one asks
for your permission
or your accord.
it happens suddenly, I said.
and hence your fear.

two people fall asleep
in a dark room
after a night of living
below the waist
a morning ray of light
squeezes through
upon the bottles
cigarette butts
other waste
the man opens an eye
sees the body next to him
hears its breath
his heart sinks
he becomes less and less
a din in his ears is a thousand hornets
this life’s too heavy or too light .
but never right.
he wants oblivion.
he wants the flight.
he wants the night.
closes his eyes
but sees the gusts , the clots of scarlet.
outside the crow is pacing to and fro
like some prince hamlet

Sunday, April 10, 2011


Fear not, daughter of Zion;
behold, your king is coming,
sitting on a donkey’s colt!”

John 12:15

I am the one
that carried your Saviour
who couldn't save you,
and whom you could not save
into that city
of blood and meat.
The street
was narrow and
I had to tread carefully
not to drop the heavy load
burdened with a light heart.
Your savior was lost!
With bags under his eyes
and the constant din in his ears
He held the tears in his clenched teeth
and in his fist --
he hid his forefathers' lust
as he saw you: those he was meant to save.
through the tears of pity and disgust!

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Empty Days In the Desert

Empty days.
Stuck in this desert
upon which I stumbled
As if it were a rock.
And not a flat terrain.
Rain on me the indifference,
the desires, the angry curses...
Still, I will not budge
towards the oasis
which lies ahead.
The still water -- the color of lead --
speaks of all the dead that we have not buried.
Whose ashes roam
and permeate my brain
with the unspoken nostalgia
for return.
Burn further into nonexistence
untill there is nothing, no one, NONE!
Empty days.
Like an aging nun.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Solitude Receding....

A stair not made hollow by footsteps thinks of itself as only something boring made of wood.
Franz Kafka (The Blue Octavo Notebooks)

Have I become
"something boring"
made of meat,
invisible to others --
to everything save
for despair?
Do I dare
to imagine this life
less unbearable?
Or another -- not attainable? --
in this existence
where I am sentenced
to flesh
in this city
that looks like amnesia:
deserted wasteland
without the expanse --
the color of ash.
At night,
I meet my temporary death.
With the sun's light and heat
I am confined to solitude
where I hear my own breath.
And the beat
of my own heart.

Thursday, January 27, 2011


...the wars --they'll be fought again
the holy dove -- she will be caught again...
leonard cohen

For Alex Smith

It's been a while....
life without you has been hard.
Merciless. Sober.
Even the bottles don't help.
This is not a yelp of a lost dog,
nor a cry into the tender night.
The fog,
the indifferent fog protects me from clarity:
from the precision of knowing
that the light
is only going to illuminate the lack,
the edges of loss -
eveyone's future -- is the cross.

... and everyone's burden is the truth
for which you no longer care with age
simply because it doesn't exist.
The least
one can do is bear the lie
and have the decency to pluck out the eye
at the first sign of retreat
from the illusion which enables us to treat
love as something real.
As somethiing worth shit.

This land and its sky doesn't shelter.
The moon sneaks throught the fog,
bares its face.
Then it withdraws in awe even farther.
I sit here speak with you, Father.

Friday, January 21, 2011

The End

and when the last bird
falls from the sky
and the last fish drowns
when the waves throw its body up --
stiff, open-mouthed...
look into its eye.
into its glassy bead
observe the indifferent stare
you -- are the bare
and lone remnant
left upon the planet.
Time closes in on you
Chisels your sanity into fear
and leaves you no luxury
of going insane --
like some king lear