Saturday, 21 January 2017

Thinking of Salomé

Across Europe he goes.
After her words, the loves,
Her clever vignettes,
All retailed by a friend.

He thinks of Hume, 
His old love Schopenhauer,
The poverty of passion
When you buy it secondhand.

Sunday, 8 January 2017

He Comes He Goes

Pans are boiling.
A field’s small talk,
Its steam rising up
Out of the dead
And dying.

In a shallow ditch, 
A small patch
Cleared of corpses,
Two strangers
Drink and smoke.

Monday, 2 January 2017

A Bad Trip

Beware of friends. Especially when they talk about novels. A friend calls this one a dream. And so we read the book as if in reverie; nodding off now and then we enhance the effect, an oil donkey over a well of words.

Sunday, 18 December 2016

A Hike Along Difficult Terrain

The talk so serious, 
For such a time.
Then his humour,
The penetration of those phrases,
A first for me, in this life.

A first for you?

Yes! That talk
His words,
Ah, those words…

You were intoxicated?

But of course!
Such a strange guide,
Then his path so difficult…

Of course I know
There were times
I didn’t follow; 
I accept it, I admit this.

But then, surely, but who…

Sunday, 11 December 2016

Human, All Too Human

His friends,
Pleasant little birds,
Are flying away.


His words
Too large,
Too imperious.

But why?

Think of a hawk
Raiding their territory
For prey.

Sunday, 4 December 2016

Schauspieler Maske

We feel it; a cat curled up to a warm radiator.

Think of a door, a furnace behind it; think of heat pulsating through steel, which is turned into transparency, into glass. Out of this dark place, the basement of a building, its coal mine of a night, a tropical mirage.

Sitting in the auditorium while the actors cover us with warm blankets.

The eyes are closed. The mouth hardly open. Keep out! My face is shut to you. No one is allowed in here. Staff only! No cook wants the guests to see his dirty oven.

A gigantic lightbulb in a blacked out room.

Garish. The simple emotions the actor is creating in us. The colours burst out, like flowers through leaves. It is Spring; painted by God in his infancy.

Waves of warmth lap up and into the stalls.

Hair wild in the wind; each strand drawn with mathematical precision, with a pen, with a ruler. We think of chemicals bubbling inside a retort. Yes. This man a scientist, he is a technician, calibrating his performance with an exact measure, to each millimetre.

It is not easy being your own experiment.

The head pulsing with heat; the emotions carve bumps and crevices into the beautiful geometry of a young face.

Flames seeping through, wrinkles of heat cracking the smooth surface, which is melting… The human will out! A bud pushes through leaves; the mask giving way to the spirit inside it. This man will have his say.

Schauspieler Maske. A monument to movement.

The hair a carefully drawn storm. His head some pompous stone. The colours psychedelic swirls on a middle-aged matron; her mini-dress dancing in the dark, whose reds, green, whose yellows are flying off, spinning out into the air. 

A sculpture bursting its bounds. Klee defining his art.

Thursday, 17 November 2016

The Sister Speaks. The Palace Burns

Not so long ago,
Of some weeks only,
The summer palace
They so quickly built
Is in ruins.

His dreams, hopes, his mad desires…