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Paradise All the noise a brain makes in passing. A period of intensity, then silence. And piled around me, the shadows of my own hands and other, larger hands. Having once watched the movie in early summer, I thought of it every year at that time, though every other circumstance of life had changed completely. A day on which you refuse to speak. The strangers came and went, while we stayed all afternoon in the natural pool, jumped from the rock lip through the waterfall, into that pool and the next pool, my father white and flabby, strange without his glasses. The waking, working, distant tempo of dream. Paradise What was altered, ever, by the stroke that aimed to alter. Wherever a draft of wind became constant, we noted the difference and the speed. The long perspective of childhood’s quiet hours. Who is old enough to know why trees blow when the wind’s up from Corpus Christi, or how the sound of death digs into a room. The question is, wh...
walking in Rome male cicadas foretell the sun the distance of rain as we walk through Rome on the 25th of July: the history of Empire i touch the breath of fire inside my mouth birds peck at dormant words under my steps roads lead into alibis for an idea of time when tutte strada vanno a Roma lady Cicadas, on the other hand, treasure silence around the marbled stories of Villa Burghese Sophie walks beside me painting the air longing dreams the world conforms a canvas her voice a ripe fruit that floats on the Roman landscape from the hills of Villa Medici the city spreads like the wings of an eagle of light constantly diffusing ...
Imposter Syndrome the nacre/ the floating lotus/ sliver of time/ inhale a straightening of the back/ chance would be a fine w hat you know you don’t/ hide & seek/ flavoured gloss now the second hand/ now the click & point/ book I a cartel of flowers/ a wreathe, in & out/ the splash a word, lonely in its snow/ investment/ a stump what you cut out of the hours/ a raggedy duo/ lip & hip yesterday I wasn’t born/ an eiderdown/ my mother, pressed attack of the aperture/ a shape you almost/ figurative blonde over the greys/ your head tipped back/ chin, peaking bring me green tea/ pond in a cup/ fishing/ bring me patchy clarification/ easy speaking/ a mouthful of pearls Orange We peel and part it, this timetabled day, each task a living segment; rich in its sac of skin, each hour of the globe a lung or bladder or womb, connected by tissue; white pith – silent and papery as prayer, tasteless, even bitter with the code of itself, the bri...
VERSAILLE the figure of speech loses its distance in dreams whole seasons become truncated ill-tempered waking to the assurance of Prince's KISS fading I get up to walk through the shimmering air as the schizophrenic screen makes a tenuous leap to fairytale in the painting of the coronation the stocking feet are jeweled a fuck you to Paul Simon's most recognizable image MY SISTER KNOWS THE SADDEST PEOPLE It seems like the skeleton key to Arthur Russell's oeuvre singing to almost perfect strangers ANGELS 'exploring the evolution of masculinity through fashion' appears as a suggested like on my feed I dream about seeing the Venice of your dreams as our day in day out slowly clogs with retroactive culture on playing Virginia Woolf in THE HOURS Nicole Kidman remarked I did enjoy being anonymous towards the end of the album a sudden transition between the rambling skit & fan favorite cut provides ...
Madcap/The Dracula Scrapbook It became a time of touching up nails fastidiously the search for resonance in today’s emergency the forcing yourself to the end of the murder the self-guided tour or railroad fever, willful thinking horseshit and scars and I cannot say I get the folklore one subversion a month butter rings in the soup the no time, the tap class in Omaha. I don’t like the...