Cloud-of-pearl

 

 (cloud iridescence, for those wondering)

 

Évariste

Évariste lying in the grass, face up

probably felt the dew soak his shirt

realised it was his own, cooling blood

perhaps serene he had laid down

his numbers to rest, his words to rest

his mind perhaps churning more

connections of higher orders

as life became clearer ebbing away

perhaps he saw another version of himself

die as well, die again, die afresh

perhaps he saw Évariste, face down

lying in the sky, hand pressed to his chest

perhaps terrified that time now

converging in with all the momentums

life, death, love, hate, tragedy, comedy

aware that the hardest battles

the ones with the highest cost

are fought in the mind and in the heart

bring inertia to stillness in pure velocity

fathomed the symmetries can’t just stop here

have to fold in on themselves, coil and recoil

as breathing, as in the awe of the storm

until the most formidable of lights

encased in filaments of darkness

bore him into interwoven infinities

inside of which everyhim,

everywhen, everywhere

finally made the sense

the numbers pointed to

Fragment #121

what if equilibrium

were a fractalled mirror

what if we held it

half of it in the light

half of it in the darkness

and looked at ourselves

would we not cry

Mirror, mirror

“There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism.”

in On the concept of History, aka Theses on the Philosophy of History (1940), by Walter Benjamin (1892-1940)

An fharraige, i ngach áit

 

Cill Maoilchéadair, Murreagh, Ireland (2019)

to heal

fissure in the heart

light water weed seagulls in

ocean-bathèd wound

Filinz

he sez he wans us intimet

that he luvz me

so i duz wot he sez

i wan kissiz an hugz

but he duzn

he sez he wans my hart

but my but to

wen he comome

late an drunk

his handz en ma throat

an mout

i cant screem

he smelz ov uver wimin

but i cant leav him

i luv him

an he luvz me

an hiz intimet wiv me

wen nowun els duz

he luvz me

an a litel pain iz ok

iz ok he sez

but less i sez

sumtymz less

sumtymz mor he sez

he sez hel be beter

if im hiz an if i duz

wot he sez

he sez we doneed filinz

filinz hurt but i don inersten

luv heelz it duzn hurt

buthen hiz sad

so i let hiz finguz in me

surchin an

he forsiz me

to open ma mout

an swalo bud i

donwan an he lafs

an pushiz an pushiz

an lafs an kumz

an i cryz bud he duzn care

hez gun hez alwez gun

he duzn sleep hear

hez alwez gun

an i alwez cryz

im despret

he sez he needz me

bud he duzn i no

hez gun an leevz me

alwez leevz me

i wana die

mebe hel care

Aporia

deep rumbles through

the soft tissues

absolute skinquake

folded in the flesh

the sentiment

nested like an origami

waiting to unfold into

another shape with the

pulse of a wild horse

lain slain in pain

gushing blood all over

severed arteries

on the brink of breath

eyes wide as quasars

the heart extracted

in our own capable hands

impossible anomaly yet

alive alive alive

Here Are My Black Clothes

 

I think now it is better to love no one
than to love you. Here are my black clothes,
the tired nightgowns and robes fraying
in many places. Why should they hang useless
as though I were going naked? You liked me well enough
in black; I make you a gift of these objects.
You will want to touch them with your mouth, run
your fingers through the thin
tender underthings and I
will not need them in my new life.

in The House on Marshland (1975), by Louise Glück, American poet and Nobel prize in literature (April 22, 1943 - October 13, 2023)

 

Before the frost

 

Montlivault (France), 2018