Azur Lies

Image result for edvard munch woman from the sea

The gentle Azur of a high sea at autumn stretched before me on my cliff seat of your dreams.  You had just emerged from the sea, woman from the sea, and offered me your ashes to consider, as a presage of entwined tales.  I inspected them carefully, delicately, softly – in no way will you find me treading on any soft dreams or sincere propositions.  The sea speaks to us at dawn, while the waves crash on rocks that could be our grave.

You are not Madame Sosostris. Or at least, I hope you are not.  But I sit, cross-kneed and listen to the ashes that you have offered speak of fat cats with short tails, of a kind of nothingness of being – impression #2 – and of some electronic band that someone some point might have spoken of to me before.  I was before.  Before I was.  I before was, except after her.  This hurt kills me daily.

Lost souls in hot ashes – so fresh?  You see this scar on my arm?  I got it when I ran into a leopard in the lonely Bush, the veldt of some southern country, the heel of the cradle of civilisation.  If you cannot recognise this scar, you cannot recognise this man, so do not forget – who will remember this shell, once laid out on a slab, but the one who remembers the scar?

Don’t get me started on Lost Souls.  We are all travellers of some road.  Though we may not always walk alone when the journey still breathes, we must terminate our passage thus.  The passing of time, forgotten by those who once remembered, the passing of time.  The passing of time.

And that is why I prefer to sit on sandy dunes and look at ashen women and lose myself in the big blue of infinity.  L’étude du beau est un duel où l’artiste crie de frayeur avant d’être vaincu.  Take your tea leaves hence and leave me to my peace; I will not chase again vain dreams for nothing; the study of true beauty must, for me, culminate in its capture.  Those eyes, burning like some Californian fire, shall be mine.  Those hands that I have read from afar will smirch my page with their inky palms.  Those breasts that I have not yet discovered will feed the greatest lines of writing the web will ever see.

But for now I read your ashes, like a father reads lies.

Image result for edvard munch ashes



Monet – Impression #1


Impressionism has haunted me for some time now.  Its paintings are ghosts in my memory, while the brushstrokes linger in uncomfortable corners of an otherwise ordered salon.

You can disobey the rules of the Salon, like you can’t disobey the rules of the Académie.  The preachers of the status quo must always be respected; their work are the clay feet of an ancient Establishment.

Is that the green light that we must row to?  To whom are our backs turned, as we make our way across choppy waters?  Are those my footprints I leave in the water, or are they yours?  – but I will pull you back with a twitch upon the thread…

I would like memory to be my theme, but the present is getting in the way.  Your reflection gave way to symbols in a reflected world, and my body yearned for you all the same because that’s what you do when youth still runs quick in flowing veins, of ink or blood.

And the mountain gave way and I could not clasp your hand.  You fell.  Hard.  With others.  What an impression that left upon my naïve spirit.  Not a gentle watercolour tampon, but a heavy-handed judicial estampe of brutal roads.


Winter was supposed to come again.  We are still waiting, me and my friend.  The one who came to see me off at the station on that cold winter’s day back in 2009.  We left bottles of champagne in the snow, monuments in the Alps of a Dionysian defeat.  Isn’t there a snapshot of this most hedonistic times?

Or are they too being burned in the furnace of technology?  The constant recycling (read DESTRUCTION) of old material, discarded puppets in a Fellini short, your fallen glove upon the muddy pavement.  These are all our memories offered up for sacrifice.

And I write.  I write in the night that dares the fight against those heinous crimes that defile our times; with rhymes against crimes, the measured tongue of an Englishman might just overcome a boundary or two of first impressions to dig deeper:


Le printemps maladif a chassé tristement
L’hiver, saison de l’art serein, l’hiver lucide,
Et dans mon être à qui le sang morne préside
L’impuissance s’étire en un long bâillement.

Des crépuscules blancs tiédissent sous mon crâne
Qu’un cercle de fer serre ainsi qu’un vieux tombeau,
Et, triste, j’erre après un rêve vague et beau,
Par les champs où la sève immense se pavane

Puis je tombe énervé de parfums d’arbres, las,
Et creusant de ma face une fosse à mon rêve,
Mordant la terre chaude où poussent les lilas,

J’attends, en m’abîmant que mon ennui s’élève…
– Cependant l’Azur rit sur la haie et l’éveil
De tant d’oiseux en fleur gazouillant au soleil.

The eye loses itself in the pages of a book that was not written for her.  Though her shoes tell a different story, what is the story that I am reading?  Who are these characters dancing before my mind’s vision, another snapshot of a view that you will never see?


Broken nose

  1. I broke my nose last night on the last remnants of a wall that my ancestors constructed.
  2. My ancestors thought that they were right, when they thought of prison and the purpose of incarceration.
  3. My ancestors were not right and have only left me with a distorted image of who we are.  And where we are.
  4. Water drips from taps in bars of men who drink their Schnapps with worrying ease, while women look at mirrors.
  5. And do they see the faithful man by their side, or the treacherous husband directly behind, pendulum hips?
  6. Your lips remind me of stones I once saw in a coral jigsaw off the Cuban coast. Like you, the sea gave me its stones.
  7. And I swam into the ocean with only one objective, navigation, one direction. To break my nose on the walls of my prison.
  8. And the whirlpool hit and I woke in a fit to find that my bed was half-empty.
  9. You were there in my bed, but where was I?  Breaking my nose on the walls of the prison that my ancestors wrongfully created for their children, the bastards of a society that forgot, despite incessant attempts to remember.
  10. Forgotten, I will be forgotten.  But free.

Culture Clash

The Garden

By Andrew Marvell

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown’d from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow’rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose…

Culture will not die.  Ours might one day, by becoming another’s, as we look into the ashes of our past to see nothing but sand running away. Do not look back as you go into that good night.

Dom Joly’s character is an offensive punk; he should not be in that park and he should not be speaking to a respectably dressed man.  But the from the lips of this social heathen, come some of the purest expressions of a certain beauty –  Vitruvius, da Vinci, le jardin anglais – in the first few lines of a poem by Marvel.

Yet, Transgeneric poetry existed while Vitruvio was living.  While tragedy penetrated epic, love poetry stole the latter’s arms and took a stand. Why couldn’t Hercules become Omphale’s maidservant?  Why is Ariadne on a cushion at a wedding?  What was Hippolytus up to in the woods?

We live in divided societies.  The semiotics of language cannot always show us the way to understanding the other.  The pink hair next to the besuited twat is an obvious one, but his blithering afterwards is one of truth.

But what else can I say about you, lover?  Why must we sleep in separate beds? – to get the sleep we both require.  Why do you stand there, hands in pockets, like you’re constantly bored? – I’m just not good in social situations.  You don’t have time for me?  – i do.

Always, always will we walk this road in two, because at the end there is only room for one.

And the violence comes and it is shocking, like Caesar crossing the Alps, leaving monuments.  I walked in to find you there, right where I wanted you.  To strike, to strike the face that launched a thousand tears from this one heart.

You will not be mine, but you may be mine.  Tonight, you see, I write the saddest lines.  And you know it, yet will not come.

Your culture is not mine, and yet it is mine.  And the dogs fight like cats, with single blows and kicks to throats.  The bars are not full tonight, you ask.  I’m sorry, was that a question?  No.