Abstract:
And (why?) thus, is all I know so far.

the *question
which is never easy to ask
has an *answer which
is never easy to swallow

between introduction and conclusion
lies a happy marriage
of one jolly void and one fuzzy wish list
via (this) credibility and (that) validity
of all the methods jammed in a
rainbow of paradigms and databases

a qualitative doubt
vs a quantitative solution
critiqued to death
is not always a one way topic
but the only way forward
(to prove!)

I can smile but
I am not allowed to fear
nor like,
nor hate,
nor presume,
nor love my finding
although I desperately cling to
a forbidden bias
(reference this!)

passion is a dangerous domain
(I googled it)

(fictional tale of real beverages)


he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the ******* page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love *******'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer
he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit
she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha
she must be driving a Ka
he must be driving a Jag
she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues
he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe
he snores/ she sings in the shower
he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus
he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies
they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics
they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin

*

they never spoke
they never will
because if they would
Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -
Luke would lose his faith in
love at first sight

the hailstones were falling like dragons
attacking the windows of the North Tower
it was a New Moon, the beginning of a golden era,
the end of a long shift

his arm stretched, brought the sun from the dungeon
tied one of its rays, gently to my little finger
and nailed it to the sky with a swift move
the clouds collapsed like a pack of cards
(Queen of spades fell to pieces, like it never existed)
and then he held my hand, his sword and shield
leaning peacefully against the rest of my world

once again
I watched my children play ‘it’, my women washing linen
in rivers flowing into oceans I never knew I had
while men sat in a circle quietly sharpening their arrows
straightening their bows for tomorrow’s hunt

is there anything you ask in return milord?
my fingers touched his arm
for the first time in a thousand years
his eyes whispered in love-tongue, his lips kissed my handkerchief
which gently fell to his feet and caressed the earth he stood on

it was late and we had to close the gates until the next morning
when we woke up, drank coffee and lived
happily ever after

one by one
they are pressing the button for more
I nod and
talk to them with my mouth shut
(my mouth is full of popcorn and wisdom)

I tell them to walk through fire with grace
save your words and
bring me an edelweiss - my eyebrow says
show me how you catch a ray
your bullets are buried in the snow above me
stop shooting blue birds
they’re made of plastic and
no thunder can save you

now and then
my cave is filled with the helium of silence
there you may take me hostage
while you dunk your biscuits in a cup of peace
magnolias grow without asking questions
do you think my big stick is a silly-Billy
or God is wearing white socks?

we wonder from room to room carrying words
on dry lips like paper
and the windows keep them inside
so tight that we have to draw on them
with our last breaths
these fingers, once caressing the piano keys
are stuck on the wheel, tight
tighter then a walking rope under the overweight clown
but eyes are not laughing
eyes protrude the dark
like wings of a night bird in search of prey
and never look back
the answers await in front of us
so close that we can smell the fear
of all the questions we ever asked
and when the dawn comes
our hearts behave
like one..
one deer  in the headlights

for better for worse
the club of Christian happiness is now open
patients are granted a place in heaven
dead or alive
the pharmacies are closed
doctors ***** their nurses in utility rooms
and paramedics race each other on the motorways
no tires spared
no lives to spare
the morphine of happilyeverafter has cured
all dead men walking

put
that
pill
down

your slippers on
remove your needles the plasters the bandages the tubes
[they’re all in your head]
lift your knee, now the other,
again
and again
and again
does it hurt?
good
'[the pain doesn't go away, you just make room for it]'
keep eyes forward
I’m here, by the lifts
I pressed the button
we’re going down, baby,
way down

put your hand up
right up
laugh and show death the finger
(not that one, silly, the middle one!)
what now?
now we walk out through the double doors,
rip off our gowns, our labels, our old selves
we make snow angels in the grass
then
do the ***** in the pool of love



[quote from The Walking Dead]

I swear with my hand on the heart
[mine, another’s]
that I know nothing
that I get on the train on my way home
and come off at some Glasgow terminal
that I write on my shopping list b r e a d
and rush through my front door with stolen roses
nowhere is written for how long, until when
but I hear your words climbing my body
like spiders the wonderwall
like ivy the cross
[mine, another’s]
I know nothing
and no book will be able to tell
how a hand is covering your mouth
and the screaming inside yearns for your body
like an unscrupulous *****
like ivy for the cross
[yours, ours]

the first verse has some sort of divinity in it
innit?
followed by blah
induced by education
influenced by footsie
******* by governments
you never get the bike you want
spider-man is a man in a costume
your best mate takes your girlfriend to the prom
you blink
you water the roses
your parents and your wife
hate you
you have been adopted and divorced
without having a say
you loose your keys
the global warming ain't warm enough
to keep the numbness away
feed the meter
feed the children
feed the pigeons in Trafalgar square
you have a common face
and love is a hypothesis
never proven
yawn
fret
shuffle
your keys are missing again
your looks, brains and mojo forever
stuck in a queue for uniqueness
everyone else on Earth is already unique!
laugh like a clicked emoticon
when society flips you:
head - hope
tail - desperation
nada in between
watch out!
the last verse is coming
[look busy]

He was grabbing my hand
often
dragging me at warp speed through
universe

my hair was getting caught
in the corners
of unknown stars

(there are new planets
with dinosaurs and lava
out there
and no warning signs!)

blood was running
from my cheeks
to his cheeks
our heads up side down
into black holes
or chaos or light

I had no idea
this was a force
and we were obeying it

[..I said to Barbara, I said]

word for word I’m writing my book,
making my costumes and playing me
the best I can

I think I am rather good
remembering all those lines that could
have once made a difference
when sunsets felt real,
beyond their damaged magnetic fields
I sang, I danced, I concurred
and when my sword bent from its knees
and I couldn't cry any more
I walked on burning coal through the icy rain
to embrace the forgotten

I keep on writing my book

chapter by chapter
I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces
and anchored by fear I deliver
touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking
live entertainment
half brave, half pushed
sometimes merely there
I remember the lights,
blinding they are, hallowing they are

I keep on wearing my costumes

children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep
and their smiles, joy and clapping
are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon
we lick ice-cream together,
get colds together
make sticker-charts together and
sit on the naughty step together
and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again

keep reading
turn the page to the scene
with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage
and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick
and her depressed chiwawa
and keep playing me
Sunday to Sunday
the best you can

Statement 1.The poem bellow is false

there’s no rush in pushing dreams
one into another and watch them disappear into black holes
like shiny ***** on a Saturday night pool table
no need for hope and fear
to marry again and again and again
lovers can only be parents to one eternal daughter: agony

open your eye
the voices in my head are now quiet
muted by the glowing in the dark yoyo of life
forever ends Tuesday and
it doesn’t matter why
or how or who played in it

the Big Engineer wants us to be grateful
for every dove flying above our heads
for every loaf of bread sliced on the kitchen table
for every mouthful of air allowed in this room

‘Breath in and hold’/ (should I do what I’m told?)
I take in you2 and exhale love dioxide.

Statement 2.The poem above is true

the world is at my feet
people are stones
houses, shops and government buildings
are shells
when I move
they crawl sideways
like *****

I am a quiet Big Bang on a purple blanket
the sun chases me over the sea
and I like it
can you run in those platform shoes?
I'll race you
to the end of the world

poems with you start like the breeze on wild shores
there's salt in each verse and their words taste
like lips smeared in chocolate
before breakfast

poems without you are houses
ripped off at night by thieves
they are the empty souls untouched
by God
tombstones forgotten in winter

some poems are poor and some
are rich
some open the door some close it
some are bonnie & clyde
some jane & john doe
and some don't even rhyme


my poems come my poems go
rhymes laugh out loud or grieve
but from this poem on you'll know
why you should never ever leave

*(I wonder if I should post this)

3.59 am

a monitor

two parallel lines
like a road going nowhere

a mother sits on
a hospital linoleum

by her side
death kneels
politely
holding a child’s hand

your seconds stretched over me
like the arms of a lover
day and night
I thank you for my gifts
the whispers of his lips
(oh, his lips)
the air built around feathers
in towers and towers of freedom
the blades of grass betraying the wind
the blood gushing in petals of tulips
(oh, his tulips)
the sun kisses crushed by skin
like strawberries by tongue

you leave me no choice
no other choice but promise
on the silence of your lambs
that I’ll be yours,
all yours
until May do us part

[inspired by Wendy Cope’s anthology: ‘The Funny Side’ - published by faber and faber]


The sun is nowhere
This summer’s delayed
My throat is like sandpaper
Earth is my head
I read Wendy Cope’s masterpiece and I blabber:
“Will I ever be published by faber and faber?”

The news just announced
Now, at BBC
That people live longer surrounded by sea
“*******” I say and switch of the TV
“I’d live longer only if ff published me.”

So I close my eyes gently
And drift off to a dream
There’re thousands of people
Is my name that they scream?
Am I finally up on the poetry ladder?
Ms CGP published by faber and faber?

I awake with a smile
(that lasts a second or so)
My poem’s unfinished
I can hear the wind blow
The aches and the pains
Say “hello” once again
I don’t even get why
I’m a Wendy Cope fan
In fact if she’d be here
I swear that I’d grab her:
“How the hell you got published
By faber and faber?”

I’ll try one more stanza
My pain’s getting worse
My fever is up
And i turn and i toss
I have finished my drugs
But food still tastes like rubber
And I’ll never be published by
faber and faber


Alternative ending:
And I’ve run out of rhymes
For that ‘faber and faber’

..the red cheeks of children,
the scarves and the rush
the patches of snow
lips in strawberry crush
I finish today the tasks of tomorrow
I’ll make a new list of TO DO
and to borrow
more time more time
I need it for something
perhaps to arrange all these cards on a word string
the kitchen in frenzies
the turkey asleep
the spuds and the pies
and the microwave bleep
the tree in the corner the cat and the guests
and the million dollar last minute request
the presents wrapped up
the smiles in their eyes
the mulled wine smells good
(I ‘m having a high!)
the sneezing, the coughing
the ‘I finished I think’
the sore feet and headache
the ‘I need that drink’
my eyes getting heavy
my glass gleaming red
the sounds bypassing
the thoughts in my head
as I sit by the fire
they should now all agree
that mission’s accomplished

...and this is Christmas for me

no

I did not need a mirror to see my blood
deserting its own artery for another
nor did I need my flesh flaking
in the view of the public
at the sound of this name
or that

the quest?

I need it
to give my soldiers their Caligula
someone to follow to their death
with eyes tightly shut
and fingers clenched to their swords
a pair of cracked lips to sip wine with
from rusty pateras
in the early hours of dawn
before the enemy strikes

my hands?

oh, my hands are innocent
the left will caress young Jew hair
the right will carry on
playing Bach

and stripped of pride
I watch
beat by beat
my heart crawling towards love’s shore
a puppy in the sand
my fingers running their way
through his hair
(dangerously dark)
unfaithfully deserting
the ego of my hand

shamelessly
my eyes feast upon his
(ravens upon innocent flesh)
devouring
layer by layer
the skin of a soul
or two
chimneys may be struck by thunder
roofs blown away by giant winds

I sit still
inhabited by goose bumps
while the computer spells his name
in capitals italics or bold
until
I slip
and tumble
and fall
into the Dimple of his Chin



every time

on the silence ward
we tip-toe in
words
dressed like wounds
and fiddle with
spots
where the chin
hits the chest
repeatedly
incessantly
stretching them
wide into
smiles
over milk teeth
until tongues
lay dry
as prunes

what is this tip toe dance I’m doing
around a purple room
without me moving a limb?
this pursing of lips and
imaginary fingers catching their kiss
at the other end

and this song?
I know this song
the sounds climbing my frame
up and down, up and down
from pianissimo to forte to pianissimo
why sing it now, in my dressing gown
smiling in front of a mirror like a dumb man
staring at his feet in a summer puddle

a child is blowing soap bubbles through a straw
in my head
and while my hat is still on
and no one can see a thing
I'm going to corner him
I'm going to catch him
I'm going to grab him by the hand and ask him:

what is this? what is this?

Motto: "There's a little girl's voice that sings lullabies in my guest room closet but don't mind her; she died years ago. Here's your blanket"*


the night squeezes moon juice into my dreams
and I lemon my way through thick syrupy words
going round and round above, in my head
like a dotto train
ding ding ding!!
(Luna-land here, everyone off!!)

fantasies of the weak
begging like potato chips in a bag to be crunched
at least once
in a commercial with a second hand banner and no pride

trouble was waiting in paradise
like paint in a ***
ready to be splashed over an Aston Martin’s window

how we laughed at this scenario, oh, baby!
how many times
we giggled thinking God is away on business
and this time He is, He must be
and He must have left in charge
Brahms’ lullaby, her frail mind
and someone’s little finger

without the moon the sky is an unknown co-ordinate
an xyz thrown between time and space
a telephone without tone
we use to talk to each other
in our free minutes
between our lives and our deaths

without the sun I am an anonymous verse
a genius with a badge and no shadow
a continuous coming and going
between two flickering points
on some old map of the universe
where everyone is
searching for their treasure

without you I have no noise
without noise I cannot sleep
without sleep I cannot dream
and without dreaming
without dreaming this poem does not exist

it does not end
as it does not begin
is where Infinity meets Forever
and says: how d'you do
in a continuous white noise
with a touch of
Rigolleto
it tickles your pores until your skin blooms into goosebumps
like cherry trees in a suspended Japanese garden
it pushes your face to the edge so you can touch the void
with your eyelash
it pulls you back just when you're about to jump
and stares silently into your dilated pupils
it feeds on you like a hungry beast
and you laugh the laughter of the King
and walk the walk of the clown
twist, turn and bleed with joy
clap, crawl and beg for
more,
more,
more

but you keep it all inside

you ask me a question
I give you a poem
your question has doubt
my poem has hope
you ask me a question about the poem
and I say there’s no doubt about hope

words flow into silence
silence flows into past
past and present starring into each other
with a pen and a blank sheet of paper
in the hands of a clock
the wind shakes a leaf
it’s almost tomorrow

you ask me another question
and I give you this

with spring juice running through my veins I jump red lights

wind rushes over my lips

I pass churches with empty altars

deserted parks

the white noises of the morning

a half  loaded gun in

a tired of waiting hand

the city is agitated like a dog tied

outside a corner shop

and I drive through its roads

with no name

filling my lungs with colours

I once saw in a love movie

smiling in my day dreams with you

crossing through fields of panic

through all the signs pointing

towards nothing

and everything