solea

the most potent licor

is that distilled

in the inkwells

of my own fingerprints;

penning a warning

of that most dangerous consumption

which corrodes my lungs

and poisons my songs

and leeches into everyday words;

greying the sounds

already withering in the ears

of those I trusted loved
that singly impermutable silence;

that spot which laid untouchably within

a deep, cristalline cavity of stillness

where restitution was unrequired

and deemed unthinkable

(and seemed unbreakable) -

justified in quiet unspoken peace.

and yet, oh how my toxic agony leaked;

dripping from coagulated fires

into the pit of my stomach

searing the root of my voicebox

and preaching deafness to overcome

those to whom that airy stillness called.

where you were

I will not hear you whisper

against the stillness

of suspended midnight snow flakes

or scream at the wind,

chasing it off a cliff

or hear you slam cupboard doors

too early in the morning.

I will not wait for you to come home,

or keep a porchlight on for you.

We will not pick strawberries in August

or learn to dig a proper garden

or burn things in the oven

or forget both our sets of keys.

My children won't hold your hand;

you will never blow up their balloons

or see them blow out their candles.

We will not drink tea on autumn afternoons

where the centre of our universe would have spun

around a vase on the kitchen table.

We will not watch the sea where waves like

cataracts would have patched the present

and swept us back against time to

where you really were.

jackbreath

a stolen painting

your eyes cannot follow me

fixedly

down the hall

there is nothing left

but fingerprints?

(no, none at all)

just impressions spent

like frosted glaze

on window panes

to melt away like breath.

pinwheel

caught in the eddy between heaven and earth

between subjectivity and undisputed worth

between two worlds, one dead

and another's stillbirth

where answers fly like pigeons

into the deceit of the sun

blazing above the vista

where mercury rivers run

curing those who stoop to drink

so they might sink

away beyond the clouds.

writing in the walls

voices from inside the walls

cracking though the plaster

hidden like contraband

against the light of day

pouring liquid sound

through the pipes all around us

and, though the writings surround us,

they will only find the words

mixed into the dust of our debris.

nid d'hiver

les restes d'un nid ne sont plus que des branches nues

abandonnes

decapees par un hiver sans printemps d'une heure des <<plus tards>> .

je vit a l'abri des tons gris et des illusions plus tristes

encore que l'espoir.

ou est-il alle, le parfum d'ete, de l'enfance?

ou l'odeur de lilas s'est melange avec nos pas

dans le bitume moelleux de la rue?

sans toi, ma soeur

l'amour n'a plus de sens:

comme une vielle cruche

mon coeur en argile est aussi

sec et fissure.

Je ne suis plus que le ciment

que s'en va peu a peu en poussiere

avec l'odeur veloute de lilas

que tu m'as vole.