art: Pino

If anyone should look for you on my phone for emergency,
blackmail or the paparazzi, there would be no trace
but for a random number which you could always say was
some weird mistake because, for sure, you never knew me.

I deleted everything. It was stupid, thinking that you meant
for me to hold your words, thoughts or, goddess
be amazed, feelings. So my phone is empty of our contact.
The rest will take a bit more precious time but I’m sick

of being someone’s secret and I’m gone, never was kept
more than seconds on your soul or memory card.
Yet, for a while, I dallied in your palm and felt happy, safe.



Waiting for a word from you – city tyres spin,
tread shining magic into rainy roads.
Sensing a storm horses scream on the moor,
churn dark earth toward clouds, gathering
freedom can get furious.

I want to love you – but it seems cannot –
when the smoke clears, will you still be here?

*yes, linked to previous poem ..

swan song


photo: Lars van de Goor

At night a heavy rush of wings
over the deep lake disturbs everything.

I long to touch you but cannot
temper my approach, a complex desire,

crazy to break through
your glossy surface, blurred with gravity.

in awe

art : Pinot

a collision force rushing towards impact
I crash through fleshy walls, climb into space
and disappear until the sun explodes
blind           crazy             dreams of sanity;

your hand is calm and steady        creates

thunder in my ocean pulse ready to go wild
and fall, complete and heavy, curving into glassy sand.

your logic’s beautiful to my windswept soul
though I fight it sometimes,  just to know more of you.


I’d hoped for stars but after all that you denied
outright knowledge of their names.
I tested you, what’s this or that, pointing out bright
patterns in black sky, fingers glowing
moonish magic and pure expectation only to be
grounded like those garish toys in your garden
where the vegetables failed without explanation.

I know you lied because you said that you could not,
your fury at the garden was irrational, contrived.
Rejection of each star was worse.
You knew every one but refused to share
anything that might shine too close;
like the photo on your dresser,
just another nameless piece of spinal pain.

sweet nothings

On deck the man is cradling a large fish for the camera; its silver skin flows lightly over heavy hands. He talks about the fish, admires form and muscled ocean-art. The fish is calm, moves like it’s breathing. He extends one curving gill, careful with the structure raised now like a wing about to catch the wind. Arced like a wave about to fall. The fish is breathing, drowning gracefully.

There is no space for me in yours. Not really, not even in imagination’s optimistic scanning of the broken clutter. Headless gothic lamps support two dolls and pictures of your love, lost in suicide. Your morphine tablets lie, scattered seed at her goddess feet. Her dainty feet, bare and fading, behind dusty glass. She stands alone for the camera. Her gaze is always to the right of you, no matter where you stand. No matter where I stand. No contact with the past,  just the constant thought of it. You talk about her carefully. Admire her nature, note how her essence shone when you took away the colours that she loved to wear. She never needed them to be beautiful, you crow. I am flowing from your hands, trying to remember why I will not meet your eye, why I hold my breath when it seems that you might speak.

intimately unknown


The moon is hanging there with that look
like I should know – alone and wild –
she’s a blinding mass of ancient art, forgotten.

Her dark side’s vicious, grave with dream
debris and angry space.
Next door, savage voices power-up
fire shots at what their coupling means.

That’s my point       he shouts
what’s it to you            if I get smashed?
Beautiful and still     she’s a bell
in-toning          when struck hard enough.


Adam’s precious rib hangs there, a mystery
with that look – like I should know
but gravity’s a blinding mass of ancient art
and I’ve forgotten every star-story.

Savage voices next door power-up,
fire shots at what their coupling means.
That’s my point     he shouts,
I can be out less time and still get smashed.

There’s lightning on the moon, some say,
hiding fear in hollow laughter.
Under veils of dusty lore she’s a bell
in-toning when struck hard enough.