From: Red Shoes

this poem

a poem, not this way
a poem

a poem cannot be
a poem this way, it just cannot be
a poem this way, forty words and
a poem will never be
a poem this way

not this poem
a poem

her 2 Camoes Voze red Muse's shoes

up 7th hill
and down towards 28's end
there, in the hollow dip of Lisbon
she walks holding her shoes
in her hands

but up 8th, around the bend
and back towards 28's end again
there, in front of Café Brazilliene
she lets them drop to her feet
and shuffles them on

her 2 Camoes Voze red Muse's shoes

3 Candles in the cathedral of Obidos'

in Disney's land of heritage, Obidos'
oranges and Lucky Strike, 3 candles
flick on their little digital plastic bulbs

in the old cathedral when with a clack
one Euro for each drop into the bin till
and by god it works at group visiting time

when 3 women come out from behind
the fish and fruit market dressed up
and covered in mediaeval lace and frill

at the roadside coffee bar there's coke
and lemon juice and Smokey slam with cake
and the wind blows in from across the street

2 more cigarettes, one after the other
and in the ashtray's yellow stub, red Valentine
proclaims the a Beata agapea and completes

it with an exclamation mark

Sintra's Fontana cut

oops! get on the bus oops! rush up the hill
there's the Moorish Castle
that was lost to the Christians in 1302

or so it is said

she went to the dogs
and took it to her ruins of Misery
hoping a Knight would come in fall

but oops! who is that daunting one running up the hill?
the wandering Jew?
a wingless Cupidos couleur local?

no, it's the flying-by Dutchman
saving fare for the ride to the height of the nudge, Peine
the toast on the toot

but oops! who would have guessed the King is gone
and his architect, the man from Germany
with the poor taste ... he is dead!

what a silly affaire this is
the art of it too
but the canvas has a cut

and oh it's so very deep

old poem repetition

how lovely to tell ... how, what?
oh yes, the wasted heart
that was slain on barren's creep, its faint
crying cackling beat ... but hark, this is an old
poem in which there are no wolves
preying in the fields
and no lions that feed on the lambs

it only has a shimmer and a dark
and a dream and a broken bridge
made from silver and red
and yellow

yolk

it's only a reflection in your mirror
of my mind

8 women at the back of a painting
(sabates de charol vermelles)

this painting
is a painting of the back of a painting

divided in 8 frames
8 women in every take

6 of them try to break free
6 of them trying to flee their nix

but the bix of all nix
is still in the run of the mill

in its front
and none can get out

only number 7 in her 7th frame
she slips for her love

number 8 she's white space
she's the one turning to another love

vanishing to the front
of the back of the painting

Her song

Teeny-wheeny agers. The girl moved. In unchanged land.

Moved. Underneath unchanged bridges. Passes.
A block of tower. Rang out. Her hair.
Sang out loud. Her song. Walk along.
Where is. The poem? Where?
Is the poem?

Like thunder

A leap of. A heart. A sound.

Recognition. Deja vu. The deadly.
Moment. Stephen Floyd. And his band.
Of men. 10 guitars. In Munich they came.
Onto the stage. They lit up. The stage.
Thunder omnipresence. Like thunder. Sound.
And light. In the dark. They open the cellar door.
It's a trap. Heaven. Bliss.
Hell. Somewhere love. You were.
There.

a word across the fields

‘The man who has been raised up seeks symbols of his high estate;
the one who has been degraded seeks symbols of debasement’. - Mary Douglas

natty the fragrance of perfume
Gentle Eve, here’s an apple for you

touch it with your forehead, your chin
and the rosy burley cheek

the sign is in the cross’
your tout, in my Adam poem

The ABC of a poem

From ‘albatrosses, bears and chickens’

	A farmer came up to me
and he said

	'Albatrosses Bears
Chickens Donkeys Eagles
Funny Small Things
Gofers
Hares
Ice birds
Jays
Klinkhorns
Lemmings
Monkeys
New Animals
Opal-Eyed Animals
Pippins
Qwakkies
Roadrunners Nice Ones
Snakes
Teddies
Unicorns
Voetzies
Water cows
Xessis Of All Kinds
Yellow Barkers
Zombies 
'What do you think of that?'

 	'Mmmm … a lot of stuff 
you got there on the farm 
but eh a link-a-word basis 
for poetry' 
 
'No banners
I like it banners!'

Don't

Don't 

	Don't string words 
don't string
'em
up 
as 
if
they
are
stringy like things

	Or ropes

	Words aren't made 
for that
or and so 
on

	So don't
roll 'em down
in
long
columns

	Don't 
drag 'em out
In strings

	Don't use 'em as things 
Don't try 
to make poems 
out of words

	And never 
drag poems out long

l
o
n
g' 

	See farming poetry's
a risky bussiness

	'Come let me give you 
Good advice
Boy you got to move 
your work 
Money's the basis 
of it all' 

From: 'heaps of cream'

Casts off splinters

Shouts when they break up
sound barriers shatter too
Into thousand crystal cubic shaped pieces.
And the eye when it animates life casts off 
its own fragments. 
The splinters tear into the retina.
 

Rubber strands

Boats and the sea are cupped 
into bubbles. Boats float.
Boats and the sea float afloat on the see-through horizon.
 		And they are tied to each other with rubber 
strands. 

Warm gore

The eyeballs are lashed from their sockets.
They are sprouting blood vessels
 	Blood bubbles percolate. Body cubes.
Tricklets of blood drool like drops 
of warm gore.
D
r
r
i
p
p
i 
n
g

into a pool of warm gore.

carried along

in the garden of love
and on the day of deliverance, frisky
the morning rose opens her pedals

in half-lit simmering of dawn
spreading her scent

now the night has died on the day
and it fell into its face
- my Mistress' toll is taken -

she started to decay
loosing her scent - grandeur -
and her majesty

the summer too will end
and the bleak debris of love
it'll wrinkle like waste

number some, an equal

and some deliberate strokes
of crayon on the white wall - was
this your encrypted route to secrecy?

the guide was running
away for the lonely poet - leaving
without a guarantee

but – after all - the outcome
was short of fall
its day never ceased

till only towards the end
it was a good movie

Mr. Jhonny Page

When I got to the airport I saw a familiar face on a passing man. He looked like the farmer. He was getting off a bus. At first I didn't recognize what it was that was so familiar about him but then I saw it! He was the renowned poet and writer Mr. Jhonny Page! And it was only the next day that I realized the full scope of that coincidental meeting. His picture stood in the newspaper. The Fisherman's and Farmers' Literary Journal. He was leaving town the article said. And as he had bought one of the biggest farms in the history of the Journal, it was at a sea-side resort where the famous poetic society of LWCFSD had it's base, Mr. Page was leaving the city for good.

This was a shock!

High Heels

...............................Young gals walk on. And off. On.
Page International. Marble. Passage ways.
They know. The distance between Gate A. And H.
Well. Up. And forth clicking.
On stone. High high heels. Going on.
Errands. Entering glass doors. Closing.
Opening High. Tech doors. Page.
Was built for them. Page was built to house them. Page.
Where he sits. Sees. Hears. The tapping of stone.
Smells. Feels the sounds. Of stone.
It seems. As if the tapping. On the floor was.
Composed to fit. His ear. His eye.
The sound of stone. Their walk.

Jhonny Page is one of the characters the poet has created who develops his own style.

In agreement of the day – 04/02/07

innocence, but value
the Abel poet, his communiqué
and the purity of Hearts, it is the issue
of playing it out at Stoke’s

’Does it makes sense? Settles it
it then?’

for his love of the collective engarde
is his True Love, she is the one
who deals in Clubs and Spades,
Diamonds for Ever, a second levelled
application in Scripts

and in the fullnes of Bands of Niebelungen
he is the transportative, a Buddha
asking in Walküre’s first Act who
the one is who sheds the tear

'Say it, say it again or don’t’

in his West of Number, the Stage
that’s set for a Wittgenstein, you know,
the philosopher who takes the coat
from the garderope and hangs it
around your shoulder
touching the raising hair in your neck
with bleak polished finger nails

’Bedankt voor de kaart!
Groet‘

and afterwards, when
burning Rings of Fire enclose
the Silenced One, it is only then
that his cold calculated artlessness
rose up
through floorboard and set, the stength
of a woman beheaded after being used as Slave

- she has no eyes, eyebrows, nose
and lips -

The hurt of Winter - 05/02/07

the lake, its mirror of glass

cold icy water scowls at Winter’s frigid blow
in Old Ghand’s city park, Blaarmeersen
the trees are naked and without reserve
when they approach the circle of prayer

Silent Virgins in awe

bowing and sighing, the Sisters, Wälse
scurry for the wounded, their men
in their armour, the hurtful
but oh, they are breaking it off now

shunning ill effort and conquest

and in the freezing chill all are lost
no Lover found, the poet’s still alone
it's only him that traces the luckless track
with no opera nor a horse in sight

to bring him home

The day of the snow fleece – 07/02/07

snowfluffs sift down over the city
of Old Ghand

all the Notables, the Stroppendragers
and Citizens come out from their houses
and take off the nooses around their necks

kneeling down obediently, they thank the Absolute
for the manna from Heaven that was so freely
distributed in this Year of the Lord, 2007

and from the gallows where the poet watches
the white whittling in the streets
forms a sharp contrast to the blackness

of the words of these 12 verses

Brown House

The balcony of the brown house is brown
The porch is light brown
The eyes behind the windows are brown
Winking the shutters are light brown

The Deckbette on the bed is brown
Its tongue licking is light brown
The pillowcase snuggling into the Deckbette
Is brown
But your embrace and the roof…

The roof it is black
It is black as a new roof is black

From Medusa's Wait

Nights grow with the dew and slowly
Night after night they swell like love puffed virgins
Hungry souls

Night after night at night the nights wink
And wriggle their snakes

Oh you vile guilty ones laughing sweet!
When spawning your basalistic egg
Breeding your feral faul while hauling
Your little snaky babes from Medusa's wait

Poets from on mountains high

Rivers flee from mountains running high
And flee into valleys' sinks
Naked at night the muse streecks flaunts
With her cleaved mouth
During the day on the meadow
There is no one

Rivers stall ontop of mountains poising the fall
Of their eyes looking into valleys' sinks
Dressed in the day the muse hides veils
Her comely tongue
During the night on the meadow
There is no one

Grimacing Muse

She smiled opened her mouth
And when her teeth fell from it
And hit the crystal floor she grimaced
But when she saw her bleeding mouth
In the reflection of the glass door
She screamed like a ghost
A reverant haunted by corpse

And when blood oozed
From the tearing pain of the gape
The little boat little train I bought for her
One could see it sinking into the mirror
Of Wädenswill

The marble at the crossing

Ash on your shoulder
Wine on mine
Black is the marble on which you step
White is your face - the face you show me -

White is the marble on which I step
Black is your face - the face I see on you -
Ash on your shoulder
Wine on mine

Give me your hand
We can make the crossing together

Winter's day

cold
and I have a long thermo black
underwear outfit on
and a warm black polo jersey
a red anorak and a long black coat

this morning
I went to the park and did tai chi

this afternoon
I watched a movie
and fell asleep in it
- as always I do -

tonight
i am going to go to church
the one where they sing with a band
and the many black
and asian people know the song
- as always they do -
the whites not

but now
- on the brink of the new -
I am lazy and/or tired and think
of life's slow miricale in very gentle terms
I wonder what would it be like to have a friend
in Jesus on a winter's day as well?

loving care

mommy titmouse flits

fearfully after her young

my sweet ... how are you?

another poem

‘Hearing shape, tasting sound -  oh you gay Synaesthete!’ - A.S.
 (for Francis Bacon and Bierens de Hann)

again
& abandoned on the plains of La Platera

I play the distance I have to travel
to see the castle of Torrealla di Montgri

& I play that when the sun sets its like an apotheose
touching rooftops of houses

  yet/& on the other hand
& this is important

Baron von Verulam’s Instauratio magna
had designed this poem before I stumbled upon it

& now by the by & anyhow/& in the meantime
the essential me is my own transcendental

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