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.