vendredi 19 février 2010



Lust of space was my father's house

on my guilty child-hood

Ants concentrated myself on a point

and females of Nature I squetched on secret papers

Devoted love of a mother enivrated and sharpened

my older and wiser almost distorted gesture on intelectual errors

so I proffessed atheism in my very child-like manner

and I suffered the torture of heresy on schoolish loneliness and pains

All was propper beauty and details taken from a museum

and some silent discussion with the wilderness of ground

counting counted and polished by some river stones

in two shady colours of snows and night set on a walk

to the microscopycal fountain of this southern garden

to count, cunctare, put together as did the master

with girls and I with mastered innocence

silent enlighted fanatism of love shoving me on seduction

and the dance of the male among paradise birds

I need my father again but I live so far and so different

I could nevermore perceive the same feelings

I would be lost in the illusion of space

where my mother likes to live

as her lifely wife

and my love.


Greetings old woman you're dead and I still remember

glasses of wine you put on my teenage table

to make me a man, mother of my father.

Drunkenness of memory spots you alive on time's noirceur,

I drink the first breaths of youth and I think of you

I have none other a prayer than your's

and this woman's whose words sounded you as music

the last time I introduced a woman to you where you were.


Sensible to slight diminutions of space

repetition of roses on a cheek

golden fadeur of masterpieces

illness in the dark of a glance and a shoulder of tragedy

classical one covered withe the dust of forgetting

first painter I met, Felipe, still working on engraving inks and tessels

to puzzle marble of both lands of red colour and different skills of white

femenine glass rainbow on a roman wax painting, everything's

adjectives coming together on your Buddha likeness

years come to your door, dispaired, asking for permission

to cry, the Dog and the Tiger, the Monkey, the Buffalo,

maybe it was the Cock that knocked the clock,

maybe some sound you allowed sang you the Buddhist melody

as I meditate on the dharma of painting got inspired

without words a melody at my hand's springs and decays

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