All night long
I peel off layers of me
thinking up poetry
with my fingers and lips

the little moon melts
and melts
purer than fire

in the morning, I am wax again

Winds, whistles
now all is quiet
paint-brush, sea
your lips moving
speaking nothing
your hands
expressive as ever
my words
causing a *****
by your feet
cluttering, cracking
as you step away

there is no noise
no chirps of the city
no tales of sleep
I run but the running
leads to nothing
I run not to run
or to reach;
perhaps to move
or to cause to move

But the movement
makes no change
the heart is far
the hands grasp each other
like mourning women
the sun is empty
the sky is full of it
houses reek of its reticence
and the people
are out of talks

summer is cold
white, dim, dusty and damp
the pages crinkle like cloth
and when I look up
you are headless

just shoulders, neck, arms
torso, legs
a presence, but
no voice
I speak, I cannot hear
You crumble
I crouch to collect
but I can grasp
at the quiet only

Hello, poetry, how did it go?
I used to lean here not long ago
I used to think the night too slow
I'd stroll for hours, to and fro

Stumble in the morning, grimace
Wipe the sleep off of my face
Don my clothing, make no haste
Tie the gloom around my waist

I'd sling my bag, grab a pen
Set my scarf a bit around then
I'd stand, think, and wonder when
I'd come to see the window again

Everyday I came back and fell
Into the sullen, sweet old well
Light a candle, and then I'd tell
Stories of hell, of hell, of hell

Why not of the big white sea?
In which I feared I'd forever be
I was a little bit scared, you see
I'd paint so, so intricately

One could never have told
All colors else from brazen gold
Still, I could never be bold
I fumbled, prettily, I was never bold

Why, I wonder, now that I'm blind
There is no cold sorrow of any kind
Is there now no hue left to find?
Why is there a silence in my mind?

I am completely, utterly lost

Don't sleep
Don't sleep
I begin to
Like you
A little bit more
I shift and sigh
Say your name
Fatigue rolls
Somewhere by
But, alert I
Imagine
So many paintings
To make for you

You mumble
Childishly
Your laughter
Is glittery
I wish
For so little
I wish too
Intensely
Dont wipe me
With a stiffened cloth
Soaked
In turpentine
And a hundred hues
Dont stir me
I might be disturbed
Out of skill
Out of thought
Onto a burlap scene
Grotesque
Picturesque
And so, so true

Don't move
Or I might too
I might too
Become a facet
Among the facets
Of your horrors
I might
Become art
Might become
Beautiful
In that strange
Black way
Of art

Dont sleep
Talk to me
Speak to me
Let us be
Normalities
Let us
Hold
Technicalities
Forget
Sentimentality
In the silly blue painting
Of an eyeless pretty
Smooth and porcelain
Perfectly closed

No night
To mourn into
Dissolve into
To stumble,
To tremble into
Don't sleep
I become too much alone
Shrivel, burnt sienna
I cannot move alone
I become the paintings
That I fear to paint
I become the sombre
Debris of your laughter
Cold, blue
Featureless
A moonlit night
Nothing but red
You don't know
That I like you
In my head
Come back
Come back

I want to talk to you, now
that the sadness is thickening
in the air, now
that I begin to flee the night

Sombre rue settles, ergot
of rye: i feel a blackened wheat,
I feel contorted,
and worn, crumpled, contaminated
crude

now, I am past again, i am
faint, fossil, begone from the city
I roll in little tremors
through sandpaper streets
a

franctic brushwork of the winds
I am canvas, paint, the face I hate
a feeble cry
of the stray cats in crooks
you

you make me so, so thin
I buzz a wasp in my sleep, i begin
to hate the sleep
I dont... I dont want to sleep
I want to disappear tonight
I want to talk to you

innocent blue
it’s not the truth
it’s just the story I tell to you

say, gone now
all the old times forgotten
we flicker away in bliss

roll the dice
select this, forget then
never let it go then

I was just bored
watching the night
I had it all, I had it all

I need it now
covered in fade, taken from me
rolled up and stored

artefact of old
I want so much to hold
I become small again

I begin to hear too much again
see too large
speak too thin again

now it sits by
in pieces renewed
pretty and gold

hope that you find it
hope that I too
could find it for you