Tuesday, 8 April 2014

Eerie Brothels

Do not step out of this area
It is the place where places do not exist
This no-land where languages return
While the hares race

On the eel road

Moose hands
The cynic work of mussels
Brittle spiders climb clinging from the wall
The door throws its hands up in angry alarm

This is the axe of the new generation
A world where people eat themselves
From compulsive necessity

White banner roads into the woods
Where they stop dead

A deer’s foot cupholder
Split feet of gold
Like broken-handed roots

Stump eyes and steel-grey fields
The bristling beasts lie huddled and powdered
Hard-water pawprints in the fields
Like an animal walking upside down
Its footprints rising from the soil up into the snow

On the pea road

Black sperm jackdaws are spilled out
Across skies blue above cells

Whale-tail axe-heads
And spiral fingers curling into danced moustaches
Pointing home with swollen bulb finger joints
As eyeball coracles with white skiff sails
Drift across a pastry-brown sea

There is the brick omphalos
A mirror made of plaster and stone
A cupper’s tool

Napoleon reaches his stone bridge border
Everybody remembers but he can go no further

This mountain lies like a jewelled dog
White-stained water,
A lying leopard covered with moss

She will leap, she will leap, in the trees
From the trees

Skin x-rays on the surface of the moon
The unfinished city

The experiences of my departures
White-faced, a paper doll
Blown on dusty paths

Friday, 4 April 2014

There are cries one sometimes hears in the silence of starless nights

A portrait of the Comte de Lautréamont, done for his birthday by PC and Merl Fluin