AS AN ACCUSATION OR CATEGORY
Sometimes it looks as if a rock
Is chiselling the sea
The sea the fish
The amphibians the earth
Each fire the water
Sometimes
It looks as if love is chiselling
Romance
The foot: distance
Artificial life: death
Each miscarriage:
Childbirth
Sometimes it looks as if
Time is chiselling
Time
And only then
The model
Creating
Man
As an accusation or category
Then a vertical universe
Penetrates itself
In a globe
The circle suffocates
But it includes quadrangles
And a square
Three dimensions
And one in excess
And each dimension
A full stop
And each full stop
The tip of a nose
Which is a semicolon
And follows the beginning
Or dots
Of a previous
End
In the beginning it was a mark
But in the end
Nothing
And
Continuity
EXPANSION
All fish fell asleep
The same time
The same time
The same And ¾ they all turned
Belly up
Floated
And formed a water surface
A solid walk
As if on gravel and rocks
Here a trout’s tummy
Here a whale’s belly
Here a shark’s
Peritoneal cavity
I walk and reach across the way
Here in the non-world
Spread the habitation
Of man
And
Impossibility
They never got to know thirst
The earth alone
Had water
On the mountain peaks
And this solid
In the sky’s
Eyes
And
Beyond
WITH UNBEARABLE BLUE
You’ll take all tiny veins
And
The arteries of an earth
Now that an old dear will be refolding
Abundance into colour
And
With a radiograph
Thus faintly shall you diffuse
At the base of sensual pleasure
The International Blue Klein
THE STORY OF THE TURTLE AND THE DESCENT
You ceased weeping in the basin of the eyelid index
It’s been long ago Don’t forget yourself
He grew scales so perfectly numbered in the joints of the outer body
They became a shell thanks to oxidation and lack of desalting
And you know ¾ This is achieved only with homeopathic tears
It’s been long since the stellar system ¾ Musically in the phrase dressing the grooves
Of night ¾ became riddled with thoughts of a secondary decision
Well now, can I banish feeling with thought?
Can I fix it on the comet’s tail? For me to return like a second?
On a ruined planet?
Naught atmosphere
And again the joints relating movements to respite of sense
At irregular stepping
No reading can take place on pictures
At the wolf’s hour
Only bygone romantic claims
For a promise diagnosed by the growing of an adolescent leap
Contrabass the green leaves, they have covered the head longitudinally
Painted hideout
Dawn’s dumb greens don’t want inept trimming
Only eyes. They suffice
Unavoidable the door inviting to a dance of two semivowel pageants
Snails know how to weave every earth cavity
She
With scales of withdrawal is muffled from sameness to sameness and depicts
A turtle’s shell with a naked Achilles’ heel wearing a nylon stocking
She enters the jersey consumptions of words and thoughts
The silk moisture of amorous roofs
On the veranda
Seeing the precarious vertigo of the Other one ready
To come down holding on to her hair alone
Neck wrapped ¾ She is anguished
Six floors below ground
In the green
Slowly, slowly. We’ll she’s a turtle
And under the protection of the wolf’s shield the moment
The comet wades across the spume that resembles
A cloud and won’t find a better place to test
The powers of endurance but in the locked joints of a chameleon surface
Which poses as a sound turtle and still like a soldier
A dewdrop’s green light
Bygone romantic prohibitions
A city opens above with all antennas full blast
And the looks waiting for the descent
An arrow is assiduously searching for a turtle’s heel in plastic offers
Of flowers and she becomes chamai-leön and the planet Orion
And marginal changes
And barefooted she walks
Homeopathically and only thus
She turned to salt
Earth alone
She leaves weeps
Walks
Without
THE STARS
You take them all one by one. You bring them down from the sky.
You shine them
With alkaline water and zygomatic hands on the sheet sleep again forgot
To sleep It’ll rest quietly
You tie them with invisible stripes Elongation in thread and time
Expired
Long ago and much looked on
You give them the impetus of a sceptre or a cane. The descent will be easier
From the outer height ¾ Outline. You fasten them on the jewel-cum-neck
And whilst you are depicting a pendulum at the world’s right angle
Everyone will look at a vertical beam and from below one last thought
On top of your skull
The head, the moon of a green boy And all the more it’ll drip reflection and reason
There the gods’ satiety takes place in
Breath and earthly thought
Two
Oxygen
Water
And
BE
Be animated
By a breath
And let yourself be
Like an ostrich
Its entire length
Bending
On the ground
And
With kneaded
Nails
Dig
In the cyclothymic
Mines
Of an absolution
That will be
Rendered
In time
And
Within
You’ll
Breathe.
HISTORY OF THE EARTH WITH A PIECE OF CHALK
Unexpectedly I set out to draw a circle
Round a piece of chalk
With a scraping’s shavings to be laid out
The paring of slowness
And stillness
And the line
And the line becoming a circle by itself
In contact with the ground
The chalk in the middle
The chalk a timeless moment
Chivalrous meditation
And straightforwardness
And in time it leaves an imprint
Like a downy blessing
When the wind blows it
A centimetre aside
Whereby a successive circle is created
And afterwards air or wind
Or whatever
Is again transposition
Again a successive circle
Round another piece of chalk
And eventually the piece of chalk
Becomes a fairway
And a hand takes it high by the nose
And brings it to the ground
And cauterizes it in black
And the white more vivid
And then it creates an entire human circle
And a shirt’s check passages
And no one wants to walk
On parapets laid out in a circle
Simply without beginning
And without end
Some daring fellow aims inward
Some timid one wallows in the outward ¾
Outline
Someone dead
Is well-nigh pleased
He finds enough space in there to squeeze
His body
To imply the way of initiative
Or suicide
To make the security scenarios easier to digest
And always dead and alone he finds
The flow in the circle of life and death
Without ceased full stops of bleeding
And then a moment later
The wind
Or death
Or the murderer
And the circle’s centre alters
And the manner of suicide changes
And a moment after
The circle enlarges
Becomes bulky ¾ three-dimensional
It’s called earth
And many the corpses ¾ man
And outside a piece of chalk is making a wreath
Atmosphere separating it from the gloom
Of chaos
And the star’s
Hooked safeguard
Surrounds the tops of mountains
And the depths of valleys
And volcanoes
And everyone is satisfied
Till some God with an arrow
Creates an iron attraction
Of normality
Called axis
Round which the sun will turn
With a chivalrous pulse
And eternal
No beginning and no end on the same
Maypole of life and romance
Death’s roundness leaves
A dull sound in the body
And around whiteness
And around earth
And nothing
A half outline of thought
THE LOVE BANDAGE
When I used to tell you that too much education
Functions distortional in a look
You relied on
The nail cutting the ring finger
And said
Now that I’m burning skin ¾ skin the plastic
Ineluctable recollection
Why do you want to know
About the love bandage
About my formidable ruin?
Toss about
And don’t forget
To let your nose peep out
On top of the page
Is it called sublime intellect?
Is it called outcry?
This is education
Funeral share-out
My dear girl
And only a few
Were saved
From the sarcoma
Of knowledge
Of form
And love
The hydrocephalous baby is asleep
Between
Our legs
We feign leisure
We pretend
Being committed
AT SOME POINT WE WILL YIELD
In the bareness and equivalence
Of a look
We’ll don dependence
From head to toe
Spasmodically we’ll allow
Some skin to be seen
And some wind to enter the mouth
And out through the nostrils
Like tobacco smoke
In the pink colour of an internal pile
Our feet will trail fears
With the excuse as usual
And as is natural
That it’s the domestic animals
We are taking out
To deposit their need in the street
When our fears are frightened
By being exposed
They’ll wind their tails round the neck
As a conspicuous collar
And pose as
Well-bred cats
In time they’ll eat us up
And not a scratch
No damage
No meowing
Afterwards we’ll take out our hands
To touch the almond trees
Hanging with white promises
But the husks will be so heavy
That in baritone
The hugs will arise
And the celestial
Yes
FROM NECK TO NECK
A subtitled habit
You repeat ¾
Each time you go out
The weeds of abandon
Keep on forming a yard
The parapet always excessive
The vine with dehydrated grapes
The hair in braids for some time now
Winding from neck to neck
The voice, choking it
It’s a shady night and I tell you:
“Bring back the three quarters of my face”
There’s no light and it’s not enough
The moon’s orange-shaped grace
Which presents an earring in a sky
And the ear of an earth that doesn’t hear the day
Coming cut off from the sideburns and beyond
And dispatched in a letter as a gift
To him who cannot hear music
But only feel the night’s thread in
My teeth as they now press
The words on the marks
Where I’d see square parallelograms
And the chapel ¾ all the greenery
Saucily beautiful and ordinary
And you drawing the first portrayal
Of my face
In 2/4 or
1/3 or
In a profile full of en face aromas
Waving you fondly the paintbrush
In a parallel hearing
And identification with the picture of our essence
There I saw you one-eyed of night
While trying to see the outline
Of a thought in an Egyptian look
The brow huge and travelled
On a motorbike of sixty-two summers
There at ¾
At the footnote of your love affairs
The locket distinguishing me from the neck
And from all things around you to leave a mark
My not wanting to hear the cry’s most
Perfectly planned loneliness
Which is a one-act play with only slight variations
And a female receiver
There I heard a bluebottle’s smile dragging
On water pedestals
And you well-nigh statuesque and one with
The landscape, god
Of the water and autumn
I dedicated my belly’s cells to a disposition
Of loving you from within towards everywhere
To forget the photograph which on being taken
Reveals falsehood outright
And I told you on a following morning:
“Do you want to feel my hair touching you?”
But the answer stuck on the lips
Like a pip
That thinks either to come out or to disappear
In the stomach and beyond
I touched the rough hairy habits of your thought
And made light alleviations of the weight
Of a talk
Now ¾ though I didn’t wake up late in love ¾
I remember you guiding to yourself the light
Chasing you and you chasing it
While standing dark-coloured somewhere in the middle
Wearing depth from sky to sky
I read you the sediment of fate in the dregs
Of my coffee ¾ You don’t believe in abortive prophesies
Neither do I if the truth be told
However while I talk the word’s braid is wrapped
Tighter
Round the neck
All the more unbearably I remove colour from those
Stated on walls and out in the air
How I’ve missed the enthronement’s motion
On the salt water’s transparency
And that so childish look
Now that I’m telling you Come
Tell you twice to come
It doesn’t take long for a habit to learn
To get accustomed
But a loss
Never gets used to loss
The moment it happens
Nor the next moment
The next one
The other
The always
COUNTING BACKWARDS
To stumble over two or three accompanying pages
To withdraw uncertain
And the thorny kisses to be stuck in your hands
And with these make a closely-knit knitwear of sand
And with this count time grain by grain of insignificance
And with it rinse your fingers and exorcise anew two thoughts resting on the spine
And with these create feelings devoid of logical sequence ¾ only an endocrine gland
And from there excrete the last smooth interrogation all curve
And with it place packing paper and little by little induce sharp whistles
And with these make corners to bury flights
And delusions
And the accompanying pages
Now creased by the foregoing
Unroll these too little by little
And with a murmuring flambeau begin
To be irresolute apropos the meaning
And time turning like counting backwards
From a hundred down
And with it come to the dot
And with this dot signify
Finis
Finis
