Maidan

A brown colt
Voyages out
With a roan mare
and the blueyellow sun
on the fields,
green
seen from a fallen tree.
A banyan tree
it was.
Saw an ancient city born
and the hopes of a young lover
die.

Enfin

I think psychoanalysis is the last resort of the unfortunates who have failed to learn anything from life, love and experience.

I am not referring to reading Freud, Klien, Jung, Lacan or even psychoanalytic journals. I am only talking about the decision to spend unbelievable amounts of money and time lying on a couch talking about oneself, trying to resolve one's inner conflicts and lacunae. Do the analysands have no one to whom they can talk about their thoughts, no arms to cry into? Have they read no books, watched no films that jolt the very fundaments of their being? Have they never walked in a garden or a forest, listening until they listened no more?

The aim of psychoanalysis, as the books tell me, is to draw the attention of the analysand to the fact that s/he is mortal and insignificant, while simultaneously being both responsible and a mere spectator to his/her own life. Are we in an age where people have ceased to marvel, to observe, to savour the good and the bad that happens to them?

If so, I believe we have ceased to be human.

The Empty Rainquiver

Blood-blue upbubbling
Ebbing postsurfracing
Waves oshunned
Words unending
Hans unheld
Foe I's uncussed
The Truth is Out There
Xenophocackling
Brownd always, thin Prometheus
Hides purple seisamic seeds
Red tears sickle down
From the bluerring cloudsky

A saffron-chrome globe
Rises from the Waste
As a green moon pokes
Its Northward way

All that is missing
Is the yellow gold
And the Leprechaun.

An essay

This is my chose n diary. Of pentecosts, rupteries, nursling homes, descritions and many more words I will never understand. Smoke has blown many words here and there since we last examined the lexical map. Adamant has settled on its surface. Its axes have shifted, its edges are wroughten, elemental muteriorations have changed how we even dream. Japan is exploding with rage today. Yesterday, we had an Terrabytic shift at High Tea. The other day the volcanoe overturned, and Yourrope got laved in red and gray. Last week, the kids threw Miss Indronesia into a tswampami. I love how Gaia rocks my cradle, but this is getting a bit too much. It's like a roller-coaster, I think I'm going to throw up. And so I spew out words, and endless stream of blood and nuggets, a physical nausea overwhelming me unless the ink flows at a minimum of cusecs to keep the damn from collapsing. Cue... sex. All that this Newwell Degeneration of tueday thinks about. Ah, these youngsters don't know how to vous anyone, even the weemen they love. They've even forgotten their wowelles. They don't understand what they're reading now. French is a... a... kiss. No, it's a movie! No, it's FRIES you fukkindidot! A disgust of wind has decapacitated the last dandylion. It thought Oz had made it brave, but then the wizard turned back into a Green Goblin.

Where are we to look now? You and I, standing hand in hand, amortously facing the dark? You and I, lighting the dark, burning up our worlds and ourselves in the fearsome intense breathlessness called love?

For Macondo

Melancholy whours of night
Rain
Peter-Pater through the pipes

Words swarm across the mosaic
Blue hands inksolvent
Love bursts, raged, staining the walls
Cliff-crags without birds
Lament.

Quicksandbagged
Quintessence.

Screens of death
Midwater skies
Twelve bars to a line
Artificial eyes

Infinitude.