A mostrar mensagens de Março, 2012


after the titanic sank
I swam for six weeks
against the ice-cold sea

was battered at last
against a rock,

so here I squat now
growing a beard of icicles in the storm
that howls across the barren islet,
and desperately labour
to obliterate the three kinds of grief -
for those who have drowned,
for those who live,
and for myself.

while far behind me,
washed up on the shoreline,
all that I once loved
is decaying now,
waiting to be discarded for good:

  my case with the music in it
  my book with the words in it
  my trunk with the recipes in it
  my soul with all that I felt

so I start anew now
in the frozen wasteland
for time is

seemingly endless

last tomorrows

last sunbeam last cigarette last eagle’s soar last kiss last steps last smile last breath last thought

but still

your clothes have no owner
your books
your cushion

the you in me
needs them still

a long finish

you were the soil from which I drew
you were the rain that kept me alive
you were the sun that lit my leaves
you were the cask in which I aged

the soil is barren now
it does not rain
and the sun is black

only the eagle remains

my new world

life erupts in a thousand colours
yellow green perfume of lilac
into the living glare of sunlight
blessing our shortcomings —

seen from behind
my defensive carapace of
black clothing
relegated I am
to the geriatric darkness
of working through bereavement

you do not see me here.
you don’t even have eyes anymore

I hope you don’t mind
that I put down in words
how wonderful life was
while you were in the world

there's a light over at the frankenstein's place

The waitress looks like David Gilmore. TV:
'George Clooney is in Sudan protesting against violence'
Yeah right, the guy says at the next table. Breaking news, ay?
'Twelve children shot dead in Palestine'. So my kind of kind of news, innit?As if. When’s football on?
Another bloke, late 50s, gelled hair, checkered shirt put on by wife:
I was alone at home till half past three - missuz was at a corpse's viewing. Neat, innit?
First bloke: Yeah right... I bet she was having fun somewhere else.

Stage 4: ANGER

crime scene, revisited

T -20     the chemo room
           where your last treatment wasn’t completed

T -19     the hospital
           where you lay in the east wing

T -6      the gloomy pit under the staircase
          where we sat, and you smoked the last cigarette of your life

T -4       the bed
           where we left our last battleships unfinished
                 you never saw my ships. I saw yours after you died

T +8hs   the meal room
          where my world was shattered

T +31    back in the sun
          that is still black

perfect blue

hot breeze in pine tree
by your grave
a handful of freesias wilt
on a lump of earth

my cigarette wet with pain
while fierce first spring sun
peels away the skin from my skull
when the axis spins:

high above in the perfect blue
the three eagles you loved
cry Freedom
and pierce my mind with joy

I’m ready for nothing yet

nothing to regret

when we were children again
trembling in fearful
amazement of each other,
in the sun-specked shade
of the Thinking Tree.

your skin a book
of silent pearls -
trapped in a
golden sphere
of time


you are dead.
death-blow in the
solar plexus of this world.

you are dead.
the choir has stopped.

‘how is Inês, by the way…?’

she is dead.
blew the world to shards.
I tread the broken stone
of this heart this life

‘I can’t live without you,
now you will have to live without me’,
with the shard of a soul.
you saw it before you.

you are dead.
the chair where you sat, the smiles you smiled:
still lifes now. naturezas mortas.

today I ate the last meal
that you made with your hands,
six weeks ago. you were alive.
now you are dead.

I love you, and you’ll never love me back again
so I’m tying up the loose ends now
so no question shall remain
so to ready my world
for the silence to come.

you are dead now:
I must live without you
for such a long time to come.

your scent still fills the room.
did you know
it would hurt like this?

you are dead.

I live on
in the unloving

the stone stands still

from a hole the size of you
I knit myself back into the distant light
through a thousand loose ends

into my very first new cycle:
waiting to reboot