Sunday, 4 October 2009



Rustling memo scraps high above the town looming
We got that unshakeable impression that our coming here was out of time
Out of tune so as not to meet or come across spring cleaning in the windows a cloud
Riveted over the wood
By the time wind drifted memories the town’d
Been void enough for encountering spaces one transparent the other
Superficial to elevate high up the sky they will grow in time tall and full
As words one hardly remembers
They will later meet again but circumstances will be in the way
Collateral’s long awaited arrival will come too early eventually to
Finish off with proper dignity and substance but – perhaps –
One should not rely on
The indispensable thus static thus ending elements however unnerving absence
Seems to be at the table clad in white waiting for the visitors to go
Away leaving all the negligible and accidental spots behind
It is so weird
When revelation gets mixed up with roars of laughter proximity
Gives hope we only need some coolness from the distance
Sometimes one gets a better picture it’s only words though which do not
Ever shape up
And ask for forgiveness as they had acquired the knowledge and wisdom and
No power still is capable of turning them into reality the table is the scene of fight
Not to reveal not to allow in vain however as no coming out
Will ever sink in
And the hunch is nothing compared to music (indispensable) in the world that
Disappears abruptly in the spotlight with no audience in the front row the guests
Are having fun
No-one escapes where has eloped the eyes supported by nothing only
Adorn the head, which is so determined and committed and perplexed so
The body entertains the visitors in unproductive gestures
That mean nothing
And nothing comes to nothing pitch darkness was nowhere in sight
To catch the shadows of the chosen ones the order took over the venue wiping off
The impartiality of sentences no associations no contexts
So be it
It so often happens that the order disorganizes life which is valued by so few
I am thinking hard what to choose objects came into possession of their weight
Suddenly and leaning towards the opposite tried hard to stay
With no strings attached they form relationships so a voice from afar (vicinity
Would make it distrustful) was observing closely as power in the night
Trespassed silence transformed in a couple of sounds whispering that
The coming is nigh

And it all ended up with no conclusions drawn in which the dancers might have
Completed their act but here you are you receive a letter informing you of another
Season opening - professional as it were lack of powers of observation becomes
A burden for a while
Rounded off elegant statements take their places not discerning not destroying
Not creating in spite of clamour made up between the table and the anxiety and
An uncertain glance into some dry disinterested distance


An Apple
A smile, a friendly face, life is good, a stroll down the beach.

Sweet as sunlight in the rain and a pancake with blueberry stuffing you dash in to say that we are over. The world is grinning, sinister, dust goes off the eyelids. I see I must face the music. Bridges drawn up the sky is blown up the universal truth revealed, unnoticed. Is it better?

A mirror
Lifetime guarantee only please

Up yours!!!

Anal sex
Extra-uterine pregnancy

Every Time I See You
Too short, too little, never often enough

Cumulus, cirrus, lucifer orbis out my window

J.S. Bach

Always losing those keys of mine.
When you are falling
And the voice is breaking up
Between a way and an approach
When the god above smiles in green
Calm and certain coolness falls down with you
To make the space palpable


It has already been written and it will be again and again and again.
Empty scrolls hold all the magic. Hundreds of worlds
Uncharted, words unspoken, senses unexpressed. Fresh
Hues burning. Unheard-of halftones flowing.

Had I not heard perhaps the dissonance
A great highly artistic indispensable to no-one
Artefact of art inexpressible or inexpressive

Had I kept the distance and stood by the side
In its stead I watched daydreaming as my mouth
My eyes tore me apart in silence

Had I banned words from
Naming the world

Had I not recognised myself

A hum of impartiality, a pellet of irony
Musica mundana
I am asleep tonite between clean sheets
And don’t give a shit for sophisticated Honneger
Or crystal clear Pierre Boulez
Or all the Saints of every Here and Now

I had a dream
A teddy bear
With blood shot eyes
Changing skin



‘t ain’t my job to guess
not my duty to peel off
looks like a juicy night
rounded off nicely caressing
my lack of vigilance i tease
‘em don’t jot ‘em down
In forgetfulness I find
A fabulous word broken in half
It will be there pending between
When it crashes down with a bang
In a few years I will be there to see it
That’s it


In two grams
In a couple of moments maybe
There is the future
For me to decipher
A few handsome expressions
This conversation is going nowhere
Ubiquitous unnecessary flat flavours
Of a dinner lingering near here

Banter has the shape of empty
Chair at the window and dull colour
Of untrained hand

Whoever is singing this tune
With a voice as dead as veins
Full of alcohol and the day is so sharp
As hunger
To get it
And with a stroke of luck
Arrest in a word
And liberate


This credit card of ours has many applications.
You can cut a throat.
You can make a line for a sniff.
You can squash a fly for fun for instance.

The world

Thursday, 3 September 2009


(M.C. Escher, Ascending and Descending, lithograph, 1960)


the immortality of Jesus
the Jesus of immortality
the mortality of matter
the matter of mortality

the latter of the former
the former of the latter
the end of a beginning
the beginning of an end


Wednesday, 7 January 2009


sort of introduction

I was delivered on the twelfth of February nineteen sixty seven and for many years since I’d lived with an entirely erroneous conviction that it was my very birth which announced the cosmic little step of Armstrong. Since the day I experienced the illusory sweetness of the first person singular for the first time, perhaps, I’d nourished that thought of mine that i had a strong urge to live in a place where five persons at most would’ve inhabited an area of about a million square miles, full of silence and the secret sound of blood slithering in the head.
Henri Michaux – a neighbour of mine - insisted that ‘the only hours that count are the still ones’. However, my personal stillness has become a burden recently, like a tombstone over a carcass that’s suddenly come to life.
Personal history’s made up of events, which – having turned into memories – become a narrative.
The former are insignificant, don’t feel like the latter…

let us say it’s easier
to write ‘bout the sublime
let’s say the beginning
favours a poem that
accepts a short and draft dream
subtle shapes slanted sceneries
stones get softer females make
up their lips and the sky’s all made up

i’m sweating suavely the beginning’s looking
for the end i’m seeking my fly in the darkness
of the staircase
seek and ye shall find
and it’ll even be more quiet

we’ll be moved
our perverse ideas
exposed entirely
into an open mouth

zip up and fly away
before we get slaughtered
by silence

(Cecily Brown Teenage Wildlife, 2003 Oil on Linen)

memento mori

‘Indeed, I haven’t got the foggiest
‘What you are driving at’ – roared the wind
To a fell down tree.

‘Well’ – the trunk’s vernacular was getting slightly dry – ‘tis true that
‘It has been over three billion five hundred million eight hundred and seventy thousand five hundred
‘And sixteen years now since decomposition of connective tissue began.’

love between the sheets

well, such things happen (they say)
one can find a diamond in the street

we look each other deep in the eye and our ears
are full of humming silence – beautiful and delicate

as feline fur it finds its way between us
making no sound measuring the distance
between word and meaning since it simply adores
the aroma of warm bed sheets and a homebrew

love in orange

a mellow smile is grinning
a ray of light is time
passing across the window pane
in cigarette smoke
it falls asleep
how ‘bout making love
anyway our wet thoughts
have been in spasms
for quite some time now
an action in blue

love for the departed

 whenever you happen to come by
I’ll surely be here as well
how about taking a nap together – gods incarnate
of never-ending warm evenings on a hot beach…
have i told you yet that we’re in love like
deep in the ocean
wide and soft
fishes sneak stealthily past
i embrace the presence
repeat the vow
and burst out laughing in the storm
between a smiling winter

(Francis Bacon, Two Figures, 1953)

wise love

 It was sweltering hot at the beginning of May this year. I’d left all the windows wide open before going to bed and when the morning had just broken I heard some terrible yelling outside. I came up and looked out from the window to see what’s going on.
‘The doorbell isn’t working!!! How’z it goin’?’ – asked Socrates.
‘My trainers seem a bit tight. How ‘bout yours?’ – Plato asked him entering the hall.
Socrates stroke his fringe and dashed into the living room.
‘By no means. I feel divine.’
‘Hello. I’ll put the kettle on’ – said I and went into the kitchen to turn some music on.
The sun was still rising above the roofs and the whole tenement-house was full of crystal clear spring morning silence.
‘You’re gonna sniff those flowers of his away!’ – said Socrates and sat, laid back, in the armchair with a book he’d taken off the shelf.
‘ Bach is so modern, don’t you reckon, Socrates?’ – asked Plato, hidden behind the vase.
‘Bach is music, that’s it’ – murmured Socrates and closed the book.
Having brushed aside his fringe, Plato leaned against the wall, stood astride and started caressing the inside of his thigh with a rose he’d taken out of the vase.

pathetic love

 oh, you’re wearing those lace knickers eventually
you mentioned unfaithfulness i’ve been
ill-treating you with

‘didn’t compose much, toured a lot’
incongruent series create a coherent

i prefer miller to borges or the other way round
to cut a long story short – broken up sentences
seem to be the longest suit

a three/fourths tempo and unstable nights
everything comes together nicely in a tear
in trousers i hate confessional poetry

love and melancholy

The welfare state is drowning in words
Taxes in Texas - Texas in tatters
A notorious politician found dead, presumed innocent
Listening, observing whether their cuff-pins match

And how about a coffee
Full of flavour
A passionate kiss
A taste of timelessness

(Michelangelo Pistoletto up front, the blog author and friends inside arte povera, so to speak...)


a wave you are
philosophy of firmament
an apple you are
the soundtrack of a documentary
the shape of stride
a critical time
a comforting time
conjectured contour of a distant continent
a sylvan symphony
a sound sleep
the fate of the sun
a soft cittern
a land of fjords
a cave a mountain
the nahuatl answer
arte povera
arte ricca
love’s delivering
love is dying