the Hero

The hero makes a ‘thrilling escape from death’ and the monster is slain.
— 
Christopher Booker, The Seven Basic Plots

Fast-blood
red-sharp morning explodes
in my ears. Benched heat. Or is it
that monster your love.

Tasting my teeth,
there’s a flavour of sun
blocked apartments & sorrow balconies,
and the line you handed me last night
mare

(sometimes I forget in my imagination to
finish the
story remains like a hanging line by
Sachtouris didn’t write poems he discarded
comets, come to it he knew how to
fly: the correct way to:
die)

and I’m surprised the world’s still here,
so bare.

Well, another Sunday and I’ve filled my room with
52 mirrors but it still doesn’t look anything like
you.

So I get up
-like always-

and count my words
-like always-

and talk on Skype with the brother of my image whose spine is made of flowers of lead ready to melt genuflect and perform bliss like Miró (but not like me I prefer the Kandinsky freak-out experience the city bombed in a night my body razed over a canvas of
napalm
             confetti)

-like never before-
I set fire to
memories
            architecturing the impossible (just for you)
            prostituting my time
            sellotaping
small distances.

Last time I knew you
you were spending time with
someone as apolitical and anti-aesthetic as
the moon.

But
I’m the hero
I have to act

and I’m train-ing, under-ailed,
listening to the Smiths, becoming one of the
magnifying glass people,
I usually more aphoristically tend to look for
disaster yet this time is different;
no more hangings for muses.

You know how the story goes,
tourists football fans evaporate easily
and you don’t want your hero to be
fickle & volatile.

So now my shape is different
it is that of an
acrobat
for ropes I use
horizon
tal lines


Kandinsky - Bright Picture

Kandinsky – Bright Picture