kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

soto yaki

she was standing with a gaggle of friends and they were all smokers every single one of them with tall disdainful eyes and ample leg and very high hair and it looked impossible to approach and i remembered how she had screamed when she saw the flowers and how she had been the most beautiful and was the most beautiful and i went up to her sorry excuse me and she turned her face

she has a thin face like a knife that does not limit her beauty but rather sharpens it and intensifies it and brings her aristocracy full frontal with the harsh part of her cheekbones and nose and deep frosted gentle eyes lidded hugely and with her head turned front to me i could only catch half their glory for the other half is seen only from the side smeared across her profile like a goddess

and i looked at her but not even i but my gaze looked at her and tried to escape itself to realise the truth of her beauty

she was so beautiful and i told her i was sorry i didnt bring any flowers and she said it was okay and i said thank you very much for the performance thank you i said and she said thank you for telling me it was so nice of you to come up and tell me what do you do she said and i said i was a dancer which she didnt catch the first time so i said again i study dance and she said thats nice and thank you for telling me and i said thank you for your performance and backed away and she said thank you goodnight and i half turning away said thank you goodbye and she was gone and she was so beautiful and i say now that her beauty is perfect and my memory of it is not so do let let any blame of her ugliness fall upon her but upon me in the retelling because she was beautiful

after i spoke to her i felt my whole throat had soured up and the acid was fighting out of my eyes. i had to leave because her gaze was too beautiful and there was nothing left to say. i had only gratitude for her and that was the end of the story i am now on the train trailing away from both her slim wrenching face and it rends me open like a clever knife

lesbos

soft, insatiable Mouchette
my vixen with parted tail
curl me about your neck like
a red fur or opal collar
draw from this well, lid astray
your fingers dripping with spit
let me turn to suck grains of salt
from your high brow, your lashes
i bite into fields of oysters
seas as far as eye can see
and spit out beads of sand
let me hold your sapling ribs
cup the dew that forms on trees

i am no lord, no destroyer of worlds

I would like to see again the cowherd with his long face and high, cool eyes – crescent and crisp as fruit slices on a china platter.

highlands

I wish to go to woods, that are wild enough you can see the shadow of neanderthals in them. I must see thrown on their brackish fur the handprints of the great ferns, cruelly green, half-baked in orange from the torch that cries primitive red rain into the cerulean bowls lain eaten into the soil. I must be able to spy the great dragonfly tiptoe with his infinite crawlers up and down the frond, each rustle of his smudged wings the urgent shudder of a cymbal. I should see on the ground fresh tracks with dark dips of water before them, where the animals’ waters ran from their mouths as they scrambled from the top half of the alligator lain upon dark water.

mountain can’t mountain shan’t

in my close
handheld worldjar –

you say there are mountains
otherwhere in the world
and wander i do not believe

outside of my stale earth
from which only human hand makes metal grow
how can i know stone to
heave or spit or smile or
tease formless air

where could be
a hungry maw of rock
hungry enough
to thrust the jangling
rich white teeth
into the socket of the sky

when the wet sparks rain,
how, with shameful coyness,
can earth chill with affection,
twist into the sun all in anxiety,

and passive but conscious
feel the light
as a lover’s knife
flay naked his open body

dead earth to fight the sky
it fights me –

a motion only
God’s fist could achieve

–––––
Please have worked.

the voyeur

i was fucking you in the grass
and she stood
and then took a picture of us

–––––––

I have not come here to spill for a long time – I am sorry.

curio

A child’s pleasure
Runs warm with quick

Pattered,
Camera-armed,
Specked brown at nest’s edge,
Whilst the nudist beach
Rackets under silk spray

Dirty dozen radio
Cakes the flash,
Backlit naked colour
The shutter.

His paint calms

Multiple lobes of sand

Constructions of flesh
Lope and jangle
Under terror of sun.

Beside, the ocean
Strokes always, gasps,
Land under water.

aporia

The impasse between men
I handle like glue.

My house the frame dotted
With flies, the hill

Drenched silly in dialect

Not recognised, grass
Overflows as i bash,
Howl and somehow

Make understood myself.

If he lay his hand upon his cheek, and held his neck oddly sideways, and closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that his hand was someone else’s, and five seconds would be lost in bliss, until the carpeted ghost of a breath whisked his nape into a hopeful buzz, and whose rebuff electrified his into slapping his limp arm off his face.

A virile and convulsive shadow behind me scrabbled, to the ground, as it mauled up the steps and rutted away from the brutal roman sun, spitting and wracked under its own puissance.