(boy in yellow)

Comes a boy dressed in lemon yellow (why?)
A friend of my son (dressed in orange)
(Are they a couple of fruits, do you think?)
And the reason is he’s eager to decipher
And convert into his own tongue
One of my solid object-poems
One of those kept (in the shape of an unscrambled puzzle)
In one of those other nondescript boxes over there
(Were he not a friend of my son’s would he even had ever heard about them?)
Well let’s see
Does he know that the ultimate sense of that object-poem can only be extricated by one or several dreams dreamt by the decipherer?
And this only after two or three weeks during which the brain has been more or less able to digest it?
Digest (that is grasp intellectually) most (or better still all) of its insinuations?
The lemon seems in awe at my ominous words
And yet how meekly accepts the “challenge” (his word humbly)
So one adds the following
That here’s the box
That he’s free to use his own time to do whatever he wants with it (his time) (not the box)
That the box one expects to get it back with all the pieces yet there
And...
That under no circumstances will one’s help be (ok?) forthcoming.

An X, not an Y

An X, not an Y



She's not happy coming down the stairs
with her green wide-winged hat
and her green close-fitting dress
so elegant she and kind of divine
but no, she's not glad at all today
having just had notice that all her children
had been killed abroad.

We that are left are not allowed to enjoy the day
the sand the crickets the écrevisses... nothing
nor the helpless wee birds just born into the hot ice.

Sad, we've got to be also sad
we've got to check our enjoyment of life
our greediness for what our senses sense.

And so through the night full of bourdonnements
button by button slowly until the dark cape's undone.

She's such a vision though
when with the sun she tosses away her green dress
and walks naked down the strand.

All nature revives then and my dreams with it
and into the white clean clothes the tip of my tippity prick.

How eager then all for her benediction
unfledged birds naked insects fetuses... all.

And me an earth-filtering worm squirmy of contentment
definitively annexed
definitively annexed now to her all pure purple core!

s(knob)bery of the flesh

Still puzzled by all that, bodies with legs waning, melting as icicles, gone, renounced, irretrievable as the past.










knob of flesh
frightened stick of dynamite
persuasive pumice
in its nests scary acrid saccharins
clarinet that bristles
all sounds pronounced unfit

self-swollen cockroach who to heaven aims her shrillnesses
telepathic doodles interspersed in spasms of resentment
squirming jetsome in the atmospheres
a doozy of a twister wreaking havoc therein
the sky a brainless beast chivying a flock of panic-stricken sheep

at all this thunder stares the fool
slept off the scandal and the guilt
he greets in phony joy the thieving needles of his bed
of pareses and thorns

someday'll retaliate the beaming pawn
he shall smear his own funeral with a slew of risky subtleties
as I wasn't there here I ain't he'll say
or perhaps...
but nobody'll listen
nobody shall be there anyway
we are all dead as passing clouds who have the form of molten lead.






Gray birds disappearing in the distance, but were they ever even birds? Or just shades, distorsions of what's seen, discerned.