childhood bragging

he is wearing a fireman's hat

being head of the spider patrol

we search out spiders

then we kill them

my youngest cousin still in diapers

hits me over the head with a tonka truck

while my back is turned

we burn ants under a giant magnifying glass

i eat dandelions, orange paint, paste and dirt

i can step on a bee with my bare feet

i can let my spit hang to the ground

then suck it all in

sitting on the steps 

friends are playing touch football in the street

i want to be inside

sitting in the darkened basement

the shiny black piano bench

a small grey shading tv

marine boy eyes shining

with an unexplainable sadness

perhaps in the eyes of the eternals

weariness pooling in light

just to put it out there

amy winehouse is dead
we could all see the her death coming
the public of life of an instable talent blown and blown until she bursts
nobody is surprised and the syrup flows out over the net 

untitled 24/8/2010 (walking home past St Lazare)

slow motion sequencing

speeding up as the sunlight chases behind me

the flutter of lashes behind my shades

synchs with a golden light from the corner of my eye

the building across the tracks is splashed with lucidity

a quick freeze frame panoramic

reconfigured fragment (89/90 in Bogota)

no longer chained by her face

bullfighting ring, red wine, spilled coffee, a forgotten taxi ride

spilling me back to my room to recompile my lists

shady quiet corner

an angel flying round my sneakers

i ache silently for its wings

subjectivity hanging around my neck

a small child waiting to be thrown in the air

untitled 21/8/2010

Nostalgic like a patch of autumn sunshine

sounds nice, but where could I fit that into my life

just a few words pasted together

the images come filtering through

year unknown

lying on chill dewed grass

black army coat, goatee, thick glasses, a smile

these were all part of my paraphernalia à cette epoch là

much later

southern coast of Turkey, February

a port town

wearing sweaters we walk out on the stone slanted docks

laying in the sun after the rain and cold of Paris and Istanbul

he died in venice (rewrite)

he died in venice

the obituary said
an overdose at the age of 40

he died in venice

and all the critics said
he had written some imaginative poetry

they could not have been speaking of these images

a smooth muscled body
hair dyed blond
unconscious in the shower

the ripped pages of a cum stained copy of Thomas Mann's Death in Venice

a cold hand clutching his final words
trying to thrust them far from his dying body

maybe hoping

that his final scratches would not be obliterated by the blood

he died in venice

in some city he grew up
fought with friends and parents
in some city or another
he made love and had sex with men and women
he took classes and jobs of little or no interest
in one place or another
he read books and wrote poetry

but he died in venice

he put all his notes in the corner
and his lover in the shower
but he couldn't keep the blood from staining the covers
and drying on the erection of his undressed body

an infinite caress

an infinite caress
a caress which never ends
and has no beginning

flowing from one body to another
over one shoulder blade
then down the rhythmic spine

over hard barrel of hairy belly
past sweet skin of perfect ass
the bones of pelvis jutting out and asking to be touched

caressing myself and others

this hand of mine which finds no end to all the flesh beneath it
running over all the limbs of every body
touching all the faces
circling all the eyes within its grasp

amongst this multitude of breasts and legs and dicks
with neverending plain of skin stretching out
I search

a nook of muscle
a nest of hair
the duvet of her sex against my cheek
the weight of his head resting in the valley above my rounded ass

i would hug myself but there is one arm too many
one hand ill at ease
one glance which has not found its home