Wave To The Ocean, Wave To The Sea

We were discussing clarity within the hall of mirrors
The one next to the museum of water
The the museum that keeps a little collection of tsunamis
Hidden in the basement
Covered in droplets

    The antithesis of dust

A burned out car waits outside
 or rather, it doesn't
Strange
But not hurting anyone
As if expressing something profound about something small
Something so small we hadn't thought about thinking about it yet
And looking at the rust you get a feel for all those who traveled in it
Offered lifts
With plans for their destination
Places worth more than their distance

   The clouds close by

My companion opens her infant hand
Something is melting in its palm
An ice cube?
  I ask
A diamond
  She answers

Secondhand Smoke

Young Ophelia

Hamlet’s old flame

Flameless

Out in the water

Amidst the reeds, amidst the rushes

Smoke in the distance

Wood

Or whatever that is burning

Leaving wood

As a ghost does a man

Rex's Homage To Catalonia

We don't normally talk sports. We don't usually talk, but this night Rex wanted to talk about what was on the telly.

  He told me that all sport should be blood sport. He asked where's the religion without the blood. He said that that silly cunt Cillic walking out of Wimbledon with his mortality in tact was an affront to civilisation. He got on to politics. He said that that dopey twat Nick Clegg would have saved himself, and his party, a lot of humiliation if he'd have committed harikari right there in the middle of PMQs. He went on. He talked about how the sun craves blood. He talked of the murder rates in the summer. He believed the Aztecs had it right with their sacrifices. He used our current bad weather as a case in point. 

  He had a suggestion. He asked why don't we hot wire the Jag outside and drive off into the sunset like a fist into a face and smash it into the dust of night, plummeting this God forsaken planet into darkness. I told him that although he wasn't too drunk to drive, I was too pissed to be a passenger. We ordered another drink from the barmaid with a tattoo of a mermaid over the scar on her wrist.

Written in a bar in Bratislava

Leopoldstadt

Let's suppose sufferance helps.

Around here even the sunshine looks false. Its deceitful rays fall upon the decadence as it burns itself out over the space of a few short millennia. They fall upon the king's plastic crown as he dances like a bear for an unseen master- for change. Boys laugh at the spectacle. The disdain in their spit is matched only by the hot hate in his tears. Yet his dance continues. He cannot do aught else. He paid the piper too high. He paid him fuck all. At least he has enough for cigarettes. When it comes to filling the void translusive substances always fit best, filling the gap without widening the cracks. They connect the space instead of expanding it like the ghost of time. The lack thereof. The only way of coming to terms with that missing card in the flush is to acknowledge it. Checkmate stares us all in the face. Lady death has the ivory piece to topple our game in her long fingers- appearing out of nowhere as if they crept out of the mirror. She's just waiting to make the move. Maybe she's nervous at first.

I keep on walking . I turn the corner. Beautiful horses stand there. Beautiful for show- hideous in its way, eyes blinkered, ears clapped. Caparisoned. My heart pangs with sorrow. Maybe melancholy helps. Why else would we feel such a delicate emotion? The soft sister of rage.    

Dominoes

winsomely

Winstanley catches his breath

'jus' a lickle small death'

he says

in the space between

the nothin' mo'

&

nothin' less

When The Wind Blew Right Through You

You heard it here first folks

that old song that's been playing since the dawn of man

as old as anything

and fresh as a rip in tights

that hole exposing the flesh beneath the dark fabric

we heard what it's all about

in the soul of sol y sombre

and from the cheap seats lit candles

not to forget the book

of the laconic erotic

written there in blood

that I saw Death reading

detailing the old song of longing

knowing the author's words won't return
except for in the mouths of others

a horse in fishnet stockings

a horse in fishnet stockings appears in the condensation on the window
it turns into a wolf
she sure looks lonely
my companion discusses his thesis on the raping of God to death
while white steam from black coffee rises up
past postcards on the pillar
of tiki girls backdropped by red
with dreams just like anyone
smiling mechanical smiles
who must be very old now
maybe even dead
or definitely dead
definitely maybe
the library book in my pocket becoming another day overdue
another day
within days upon end upon end