O

Statue of a Saint

It is imagined, that on the day of arrival, that they be symmetrical. That their worlds meet somewhere in the middle. And when a foreign being enter into that sacred space, one should say 'look after yourself' as if the other one is not capable of warning off unwanted spirits. One however is not the only pole. One is not the only man, there is not one man, not no man who may stand on a pedestal overlooking the scenario, the scenery, the light movement of nature which is (of course and anyway) under the control of a higher being- ones own father. Perched there, angel like, one should expect of the other one that the eyes only look in one direction, to the centre, eagerly awaiting ones arrival. Come my other one, come. And yet, they are all waiting around 'the other', all saying the same thing, all imagining that the other delicately take her steps toward them. And this is what one gets by putting himself in the centre, no not many man just one. Static. Expectant. Anticipant. Statue of a Saint.

some people are pigeons, others are contenders of this place, others you wouldn't in the world have imagined, could ever begin to live

M

I can see, that quickly there have appeared a maze of walls to start at defeating us, and water barriers to keep us from the world, sheltering us in artificial cover. I give you moss, you give me moss, and we feed like peasants.  There is fencing everywhere 'for the people', but maybe there is shrubbery too, somewhere, greenery and fields full of food. Flood the gates! Imaginary landscapes! So far, I can only recall the concrete ships,  factories and stones that skip and stop too early at the doom of a day up too soon, in the cold, severely unhappy. But you know more than me. Can you see the aqua in my eyes? Can you see the leaves? Can you see the fishies?

In conflict, in apathy, with mild traces of greenery... we say it to ourselves, daily (in meditation) 'we must begin to live,  w e   m u s t   learn how to live.'
.................................................................................................................................................................. On the tongue is another night of medicinal fodder, a damp awakening on a half camp, a fake rural setting, with a tormented wind swept ambition; to get up and go, to make a meal of it, to make a master of oneself.

home?

In every calm, and every word

the place lacks something, the very moment I step into the lid of its dip,

into its service. Interactive architecture, a world that is built for my manoeuvre. with persons! of whom to interact, easily, even naturally, and paths of which to walk with, not against or at war. I wonder why I feel uncomfortable, then, at my dress and my shoes. Unproper I, am unproper. And so unrelated to the click, and blink, the glance that ends too quickly, the look that never leaves.  

recipe

a mass of people in a midan midan of snowflakes no not snowflakes of flags of stone almonds and rice with milk with powdered white steam making tea come out of choo choo trolleys and more milk for the barley of pale male robes hanging down on cotton candy by the shiny lady who is wearing metalic pants ultra light of the semiramis intercontinental shining through dusk smoke bomb painted silver of crowds and crowds and crowds and crowds with tin bowls and itchy town faces who are neither winning nor loosing from the crying gas

You face me like an Atlas, broad and far in scope, distance, I can surely travel there. Sometime. Sometime soon? I'm seeing Hungary in your eyes now. And the baths of Budapest. Water baby, come with me. Lets go to one of the Poles. Or Poland? We can live an underground life in the kracks of... Moldova, up the river, down the path, of your nose. I know we will eventually. See eachother there. at the mouth. 

Spare

he drowns inside his own eyes. steep the water goes. flowing out out and into thin air. he doesn't know. he doesn't care. he thinks this is the way it is. the world and the air. this thick smoggy headache city. his babies swim away from her there. without a care. 

Nothing more. No. naked eyes love her for its as if she has always been there.

The smell is stale. It can't wake up. It can't open its eyes to breath fresh air. The air is not fresh anymore. If it ever was. his eyes are deafened by their depth, damp trodden brown, he stares alot now. 

Its damp down there.

spare

The Earing makers + Like bears

The Earring Makers

Two earring makers
revealed themselves to her
as earring makers.
The first a long time ago.
The second just recently.
But she doesn't wear earrings.
Among other things.

babe

Meet me, greet me, eease me into your world
Give me reasons to do things,
build me with your tools
but don't tell me what not to do
and don't you take my tools away

I'm going to be everything you don't want, and more.

Bear with me

PDF forever, Rough Guide unfinished

Locked in the contours of a face, wide eye and cheeks abroad

A paradise, but only in a layer

I stay there, for a long time, too long

I am captive, but I don't dig -

I have the tools I think, but I am afraid they won't work

For this is not a real place, not one that can really be attacked or altered

It choses itself and our experiences in it, as if we don't have a will

but we do.

Annihilation

Theres something so tantilising about a surface

Unbroken and untainted

Holding us there, in smooth valleys

between the features and down in large ponds

but there is limited wildlife here

and the bays they are stark and the waters see-through

A quiet place, for birdseye babes

Flat chested seagulls

who coo at the sight of a one sided world

we weep at the surface, we dine there

again and again and again and again

but the food, it is tasteless

as it always was.

green

Interlocked, on the Tahrir junction, now, garden , the smell of linen, detergent, and behind the ears

of what anyone might call love; is not enough to take me, this time, through the sleepless city, back to your ship of giant ants, and warmth, and comfort, a three storey desert house, of faded fabric, junk yard, balconies galore, and rooftop watching.

shabby matresses, and that turkish coffee morning; spilling over into the dawn of a new day slept through, a big sleep and never let go - of two docile bodies, clinging on like broken babies, in a city of bodies everywhere. Revolution? I don't want to leave - from this patch of grass, on the Tahrir junction garden; dressed and unable to touch properly, in safety, we are being watched.

paralized on a patch of grass, grown on top of old terror, new seeds planted - not another land, just another layer, I don't want to go.

Hijabis night bathing in blood, on this green spot of evolution.

Have a cup of tea koshari, the roots are a pain in my side, but, I just don't want to move






hale a taxi
but don't you go.
For here, in this shakey place
storeys high city,
you were my only home

Braless fanci girl

Why do you like AIR so much ?

folklore

it warms me to

the colours of you.

box for the pathetic

I think you got it, good and clean, I think you got it, without a contest, dogs mess
you were just playing, cleanliness, you were just fooling, politeness, you were just cooing, floozying, it down, to the bottom, of your loneliness, more or less, I must confess, I think i got it, I'm, humouring it down, into a box, for the pathetic...

I will collapse in anything that allows me the space.

I can not wait
For the century
where you will speak 

O – Us

We are not knowledge centres

you and I

we do not archive

information

figures

facts and futures

we have no interests

no hobbies

but we have favourites

we have fortunes

and our eyes are full.

Poison from the borderless

If I'll go to a place which is quiet

am I looking for peace -

where the mountains don't even whisper

but I can feel their heat

waking up on sea, matressed out with a door wide open to greet me

you retrieve me

theres a slug in my room and I can't go to sleep

theres an ache in my head and it won't let me be

thinking, slowly.

Sit around scarved

wanting to sing, to be heard

but not on this night

off to bed sleepy head

and then hear the ring

some-body is playing

wherever he is sitting

'are you shy or can I …'

'we can play louder on the mountain...'

no treking shoe, just walk it through

a canapy, a blanket, a sweet little bedlet

and play and sing

voices' sweet and sharp and high

and so is his sugar cane

from matted locked,

and sunbaked ly

open up wide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

he hes dogheat

and I I am dry sheet

in the meat

without a thought

wipe up with a jeep

little feet pattering

need to go to sleep

and thumble down the hill

stones fly

maybe I'll die

and hes ahead

and I am unstead-y

a bedoin had had,

before the light came back to care for me

to make him retreat

into hut, palace for a mutt

a white horse must cover him

over limbs of asalaya

shield him to dark time

to have his stinging again and again 

later.

appointment

I didn't realise it would be too bright for you my dear,

I had suspected, that I was addicted to the light

To the wide white window frames

and the tall white walls

but the ultra white light bothered you

and made you feel quite sick.

Letting you in for the first time

soon turned ill -

there in my bright white surgery lab

was a clinical spirit not ready to be murky

well not here, not in these clean waters

and yet

the ambiguity of our tidy white faces

led somewhere, somehow

a weed to grow

or to sprout out immediately,

but die ever so instantly afterwards

and then there were the white beans boiling

and you said you wouldn't eat my shit

and then there were your other appointments pending

and you said, you wouldn't step outside with me

until I washed my face

and so, up in my house clothes

and made myself up

to leave by your side...

...............................................................................................................

you come in this way? (do you, do you dear?)

But isn't this an entrance for the servants?


.........................................................................................................

Torture wretch, fletch arrow, I can't believe its you. Demeanoreye, compartment of a truth.

Straight through. and go without a hope, a touch, a flash, a peck, a gash, no, nothing, nothing from you.

black T

nestle there nestle there
thickle sweetheart
whistle me
black and tigered
torn and weathered
aquamarine and thistle tea
slits and eye lids, lips and hybrids
moons and fake air tire me

I am a nurse

The slave

The wet mother

I am your angel

The patron

Your bloody spirit

I am your sweetheart

Your frankenstein

Your lovelight

I am more for you

All for you

I love you.

One way or another.
I had decided that I wanted to fight you.

It doesn’t belong to me this creature

In its prison, it stares, but the eyes don’t even mark my surface.

Where is he even going? We rub layers, liars, I see, with eyes half open, lives half shut. Shiver now in his empty stare.

Glancing, back and fourth, trying to come back, to see something. But some things lead to nowhere. I know.

Nothing to offer, nothing to say.

the surface layer is broken and pop cherry eyes open, closing closing pinch by pinch. Poke by poke to turn me off. Look by look to bore my bones. Senseless, we are senseless. Word by word by word by word. Blah by blah by blah by blah. Then Close my eyes and he can’t be. In me. And nowhere to be seen! Only crawling lashes shutter over the skin. Eyes that move slow-ly, and mow through me. The lashings of his look mean nothing new.

And then, an awkward tickle to make me scream

a touch so sucky, that I can’t be.

Turn over and cry.

Don’t touch me.

This time I tell him

'As long as you see everything, you'll never see a thing...'

I'm loosing my favourite game

JUST BEFORE I LEFT LONDON

Away

Orange bodycon is cheap in untitled store. She says; slinkiness is overrated when you can dress like a superhero. Is it that since the multistorena opened its little sister got busier too? Maybe the away of towering glass walls, creates a glorified home in these arches. Out of the old centre into 'the City' and its starting to become clear, that just one inch above usual height suddenly brings the crowds to a much more manoeuvrable eye level. Survival; in platforms. Tile to tile, sheen to gleam, performing a straighter, astuter walk. But better off in ice-skates.

I'm sorry! Excuuuuse me. Its just, I function better in a fringe! Growing away with that block square, of hair, is my ability to contain. The aesthetic of my face now replaced by something more mindless. So overwhelming everything has become, so incompressible; neon letters swim unfriendly through theatre glass walls. Pencil skirts prance around a makeup counter, with every beige I have ever seen. Prance around paletted, each liquid to powder pot-head, like a mini desert, laid down and just able to peer out through roundpot eyes. Scoop it up and plaster it on then! Theres only one true match, and I'm worth it.

Edible. The paper cup looks as tasty as the coffee. The tangerine ribbon looks as tasty as the wrap. Coupled with the guy is the doll. I sip. The texture of milk is soothing. Arabica. And flat feet shuffle. And mops of hair waddle through un-accepting bodices.

Home alone and the strings fall. Humidity is cosy but unsettling. Home, where hunger is boring, and naps make for fuzzy cozy heads. Windows show the outside, rather than the in.

Mine mind is not clear when I travel away, back into the city of your stone cold room. Away. I choke like a suckling survival babe, in a concrete ship, with a water body that makes me sick.

But suck hard enough to melt the walls.

Then lay embered, at-least warm, in his dosey tan limbs.

Made up, in my powder pot tomb, And curled up like a kitty, away, I make for the deepest sleep I ever knew.

NB

NUMB DRUMB