A horse can barely remember walking a cobbled path
The roar of toilets from upper floors and green fingers on windowsills
When all the orifices were oozing with gregorian chants
All obscenities in the tiny world repeated endlessly
But I am sure the thunderheads smelt of broccoli and roasted almonds
And the wine didn’t smell at all nor did it leave stains
After being spilt on tablecloths pants and carpets
Now that all the eggs have been eaten and the bunnies transformed
Hens and taxi drivers finally relax and go to unfinished limbos
And beggars bring out the collections of mute piano keys to sell on the sidewalks



It is time to remember vacated days and towns
With the air of antiquity that has been
Irreparably damaged by passing geese.
We hate the sound of their wings.
We live forgotten by outer darkness,
Transfixed in a few shrunken psyches,
Desultorily divine. Our water is too old to drink.



Slivers, I swear by water, by
The surface of abstinent flesh, of
A shattered sun belong to
Dying insects. But be careful: wine
Left for indigenous spirits after a bout
Can cut your tongue.
Foxes circle like the names of someone
Who should never be named
In the mouth of a sleazy priest,
Circle around the spots of
Eternal sleep. The tails
Burn your exhalations on the sly. Cows don’t
Perform miracles in the fields anymore.



I keep my best obscenities for dusty sunflowers
That meet the sky at a corner of the wind.
I know that spirits don’t need footwear for
Walking across the face of a friend,
Nor ancient stories about soaring underpants,
Nor sacrificial air wrapped in rancid cutlery.
That wooden heads rise over the dry grass,
Like autumnal voices, warily.



When snow women ride deer
It is too much for any bird
And the heart’s desire is to
Peck out each key from each harpsichord
The wind and the sun might seem
More ancient than flutes and drums
Invisible as the silliest ghost of
A wiped out tribe



There is incessant chatter inside
Looking glass where the tenants
Paint used tea bags day and night
And collect the canes of the blind
I know I am a poison I stay
Away from insects and weeds
I have already fed all my skylights to the angels



Snakes try to take the distance between a rodent and a cloud
With their own bodies, but clouds don’t belong to this landscape.
Blueberries and blackberries delivered from remote villages
With insects swarming in their midst, you should taste them.
Each silence you hear is lost in history.
Musicians grow old, wear armor, throw sounds out of
Their impersonal dross. They begin to swear like medieval cobblers.
Wine gleams in the dark with filthy stars.


Angels forget the trumpets in the walls
Of the houses they’ve been ordered to destroy, angels
Full of meaningless words and
Invented histories of trees and street corners.
Have you ever caught them laughing into your shoes at night?


Whatever you’ve overheard
Walking drunk in Babel,
The passersby don’t
Need it anymore.
What you have seen on
The crumbling screens of
Anonymous reality
Remains in the spirit
Of an itinerant goddess
Forever. Feel the calm to think that she hasn’t
Composed any music, whoever she is. The calm
Of spiders that stay awake
Even in winter.


The cactuses are broken by the sun
All the way to the shanties of
The illiterate totems.
The south is clever at hiding
The countenance of its spirits.
They advance with the noise of the mute,
The destitute, the betrayed, the tiny,
Inevitably. They hoot
Like wingless, featherless birds
Concealed in the foliage.


Amidst the silence of everything they cannot name
Ambiguous and languid
All kinds of angels and flies darker than the void
Retreat to the holy planets designated as galactic dumps
Always dormant, numb wings shoved into the rifts between the junk and the sky
They become unbidden guardians of the cavities above and the hollow below
Broken rays of cold stars bring a lack of purpose


Wearing the masks of petrified beasts,
three women ride a claustrophobic rat that
says hi to every high-heeled shoe they pass by
ahead of all the stones of the sun.
Heavy birds fall into the fissures far above,
only to reappear under the feet of the creatures whom
doors and windows of the air prevent from letting out.
The women count each other’s teeth and bruises.


Crows and pigeons are tolerant towards
extraterrestrial presence on the web and on the air
while poets swim in each other’s vomit
and iridescent graffiti subverts the buildings.
This is a reason for still being here.
Obsolete animals you don’t believe in
leave tracks on water, pavement and carpet.
Leaves stuck in soiled ice can talk to the sun.


Oceans continue to burn between the eyelashes.
The salt of the spheres proliferates like toenails
in the tiny world of ancient wanderers. They look for
an abandoned church where uncertainty accumulates.
Where shadows make no suicide attempts, try not to
sleep on the ceiling. Where shadows don’t exist sometimes.
They look for music everywhere: Amazon, Discogs, eBay.
They take any pills they want. Drink bottles of water.
Make sounds with the lips. Now they are apparent
nobodies to everyone who happens to see them in the streets.