forbidden new memories

Oh you’re rising up to
a New York City pandemonium state of mind
your alcohol eyes
clocking the clouds,
pregnant with
poetic distances.

But let’s just say it’s a Sunday
and I’m globally tired
and stranger to life,
religiously remembering your
phantasmagoric lines
& face Angles
and this Athenian poet who 15 years ago committed
flight
before he could become
Infinity. Like you

He had hallow eyes
and walked around with a
big erotic sun on his lips
so that even death turned
violently
jealous.

And you’re not dead
and you’re not destiny
but trains go by
someone has to wait for them.

Here, Portobello, London, +51º 31′ 7.26”, -0º 12′ 25.87”
breaks all over my skin
like a warping tattoo
and I saw the king the other day
the King of Portobello
-a bottle empty of God in his hand-
parading
‘Chucking it
about’.

Hello? Enter the line the tube and
your voice comes like a rifle
bullet’s touch, like a Dali’s night
exclamation-
mark, mark, did you mark the day?

Yes, I noted it down. After all
I’m a recorder
of human history I write
pains. Your protectorate

Self, metalling slowly,
in a sky full of
fatigue
In the den of
fears
we call (    )

From Beirut to Mumbai to Karasjok-
to journey
to fiddle with time,
forbidden new memories.

As you talked
the moment was blasting and
the morning was blazing and
the momentum was of a
detonation in the
desert, the image of
the city exploding
in a magnificent volcanic
fashion to be worn
indoors only. But again

you have that scent of serious death, so

I find
History is written
per day
and things are not so simple
to touch.


Kandinsky - Sky Blue

Kandinsky – Sky Blue