She took his hand
and spoke
How do you love?
With brain and cock
with hand and mouth
But not with speech?
That, I can’t
how could I speak
of things I do not understand?
She dropped his hand
He stooped and picked
a pebble, rather small
and threw it at the trees
Her hands in pockets now
he trailed behind,
looking at her legs
He knew them well:
the touch, the feel,
the scent, the electricity
of stockings ‘neath his hands
They walked, those legs
and did not turn to look
at hands that longed to feel
So he put his hands like hers
inside the pockets of his coat
The autumnal forest chill
fell down his neck
like icy breath outside
as if his neck, if he
were someone else’s,
something else’s throat
and the forest air
a breath that missed it’s target
running down him
a breath of something larger
But those are my thoughts
not his
he does not think like that,
he only thinks of legs right now,
and words, the ones he does not know
The silence persevered
and hands remained in coats
The road to home was long
but short
but yet too long
Funny about time
it’s longer than the road

She took his cock
and said
So this is love?
For sure it is
She stroked in silence
the quiet of their home
surrounding them with dark
from lamps out in the street
Their silence reliefed
by sounds of cars and calls
Can you tell me how it feels,
this love of yours?
He said it feels like youth
like I’m a boy again:
the world is fresh
the flesh is free
and I’m alone
in death by proxy

She let his member drop
and turned towards the wall
He lay in silence,
perplexedly content
and started to reflect
It’s been a good day,
he told himself
A good day, and a night
is now upon us, rest
it gives us both, we need
the silence that it feeds us
Turning carlights swept inside,
distorted circles stretching sweeping
caressing walls and vanishing again
It made him think
I’m missing something,
something simple,
obvious to her and all
But him? he didn’t see
Relax, he said,
and it will come
(here comes a strange part
did he dream?
did he reason,
with himself or creatures of the mind?
I do not really know
but let’s go on, no use
in dwelling, too obscure
these things, for a mind awake to know)
and suddenly, he froze the carlights
mid-wall
perfect circles
yes
that is what she meant
I will tell her now
She will know
that I know
and her legs will be mine again
He touched her shoulder gently
and spoke:
I know what love is now
And then he told her
He was answered only by her snores

La fumeuse la plus belle

i flow with the smoke into your mouth
i fall down your gorge
from your lungs i enter your bloodstream
intoxicating you
i rush through your arteries
heading for your skin
i will make you tingle all over
(it’s always my fault
no matter whose hands are touching you
it’s me that makes you tingle
yes i confess, even there)

then i hurry back
diving through your veins
out of breath
i need to reach your heart
i want to touch it
but it’s too loud and wild
pumping madly
throwing me around chamber
after chamber, a roller coaster ride
this is a place where i must submit
my will to yours

so i rush out again
this time heading for your brain
i’m not sure what i’ll do here
tease you, please you
maybe unease you
by rhyming too much
a poem as such
doesn’t have to
maybe i just came here to digress
as i usually do

but i feel a surge
pulling me back down
once more the rush through your heart
a lovely place among those beautiful hills
but now it seems you’re tired of my games
i’m blown (oh i wish)
into your lungs
i feel them contract
i’m caught, riding the hurricane
as you breathe me out again
i reach for your lips
hanging for a second by my fingertips
before i’m lost and you dwindle
slowly out of sight
as i’m ventilated away
once more alone with the molecules of banality

it was a wild ride my dear
thanks for having me

I wanna to move to Canada

I wanna to move to Canada
where the trees grow higher
the rivers are longer
and the salmons bigger

I want to be a Canadian!
Living in wildwood and forest
the thought simply leaves me no rest
Ol´ papa Bear´d be my neighbour

In Canada´s country I´d live
Harmonious with self and with nature
not like here, where always later
awaits paperwork, e-mails and boredom

In Canada blank verse is free
meat and potatoes for you and me
and presumably no one complains
if metre and rhyme doesn´t fall into place everyday?

The X were the purest people on Earth. They had banished everything imperfect from their culture until it shone like a perfectly spherical white diamond. The only accepted interval of their music was the octave and the rhythm proceeded in even steady beats. Their literature consisted only of one word sentences (hence they had abolished all interpunction since there was no need for it). All letters of their alphabet were symmetrical and upper case. All Xian paintings consisted only of a single black dot on a white, perfectly smooth surface. (This should not lead you to believe they all looked alike. There was full freedom as to the placing of the dot – although extremes were avoided – and it’s size, as long as it did not dominate the white space.) All artistic expression was anonymous since pride of achievement was considered a socially subversive sentiment. However, to prevent confusion between legitimate works of art and artifacts that could accidentally be interpreted as such, all works of art were signed, but with the same signature. (Different signatures were used for different forms of art to facilitate artistic discourse; for example, all music was signed WOUT AHMOT, sculpture HAOWAW MAAMOXT, etc.)

Reproduction was carried out by two X gently holding and placing the female onto the male’s erect member and then raising and lowering her rhythmically at a speed prescribed by regulation (the speed found by experiment to most often produce the quickest orgasm for the male). After the male ejaculation the female was turned and held upside down to increase the chances of propagation.

The children were kept in wards from birth until propulsion into society at the age of eleven. During this time all necessary schooling and training were accomplished. All production and most of the service sector was automated so employment was almost exclusively ritual. Even the higher administration was mostly of a formal nature since the rules governing all sectors of society were both crystal clear and extremely detailed. Whenever crime did occur it was almost exclusively ignored, since to admit the existence of crime would have been to admit imperfection. Only the most severe cases were punished, for example walking in the wrong direction on the sidewalks or failing to greet a fellow citizen in the manner prescribed by law.

Elections were considered unnecessary and eventually abolished since the results always favoured the WXW (WOW XAXAX WUMUW, roughly translated as United Popular Party) to such an extent that any votes for other parties soon came to be considered an expression of public humour. (This is somewhat paradoxical since humour was itself subject to rigorous social and administrative control in order to avoid possible disruption of public order and safety. These “voting jokes” probably goes to show that there is no such thing as a perfect society and that there always has to be some concession to individual expression.)

Primary cause of death among the X was exploding lungs consequent to suppressed sneezing. This accounts for well above half of the cases and was considered a natural cause. There were no diseases and no one died of old age. If an individual were still alive at the age when physical and mental deterioration were considered to set in (78 years for the male population and 82 for the female according to the last recorded statistics) they were put to death by lethal injection. In order not to submit the individual to unnecessary psychological distress this lethal dose was administered by arrows fired by specially trained riflemen who unfailingly caught the subject unawares. Since the poison killed instantly there was no suffering. (There were stories of victims mistakenly being hit by empty arrows used for training practices, but these were soon considered as urban myth.)

The circumstances surrounding the demise of the X and Xian society are unclear due to lack of documentation. It seems the meticulous public records that are often referred to in the surviving literature were destroyed, or is at least missing. Only copies of documents from the public files have been found, most often originating from local administrative offices. These can hardly account for more than fractions of one per cent of the total mass of records that must have existed. Consequently there has been an unsightly amount of speculation as to the cause and nature of the fall of this weird and wonderful people.
One of the most popular theories – probably because of its sensationalist nature – claims there was a kind of collective mental breakdown caused by the constant repression of anything imperfect and assymetric. A kind of mental equivalent to a collective lethal sneeze (see above), if you wish. The only evidence supporting this theory, and it is vague evidence, is a recorded slight rise in the kind of dissenting vote mentioned above. Thus in one late surviving document from the central Xian administration the percentage of votes not supporting the WXW rose from 0.00024% to 0.00036%. A dramatic rise, perhaps, but since we have no access to other data from that election we have no means of establishing the significance of this figure. It may even be a result of some statistical aberration. Disease is another popular theory, but that presumes an outside influence since there were no indigenous diseases. It has even been suggested that the X fell victim to a military attack – possibly biological – but this seems unlikely since they had no contact at all with other societies and their territorial possessions were of no strategical interest and held little natural resources. Collective suicide is another speculation, though for what reason one might ask. It has been suggested that it might have been a logical conclusion following an ultimate perfection in all matters of society, and that the X would then have regarded this as a completion of some kind of mission and seen no reason for further existence. This is however just as fanciful as any other explanation; it suggests a metaphysical view of life that finds no support in any trace left by the marvellous Xian society.
No, we must for the moment accept that we are at a loss as to the reason of their demise. And this would be in the spirit of this great society; after all, acceptance of ones own imperfection is less imperfect than groundless speculation. Our only hope lies in the future discovery of the lost documents of the central Xian administration. Until then, the scant fragments we have will have to serve as the basis for our understanding and admiration of this great civilization.

November 2011,

XAX HUUM VWAOWAV

with a chip chip here and a chip chop there
a shard of frontal lobe lands behind my ear!
does a kind of shimmy, joins a karawane
trading in medulla oblongata
much cherished by the merchants of the cortex

my center of sexual stimulation
is confused with rational calculation
algebra is so hot, i’ll marry a teacher
if not an atheist preacher

hugo ball is getting on my nerves sometimes
who does he think he were
getting on my nerves

chip chop hubo gall
ballifanto jombla

take that you bastard

you were a cheap cheat and i love you for it

krrrrrr
kwoooosh-krak
fwwaaaa!!!

pum-pum-puM-PUM-PUM!-PUM!!-PUM!!!

krrrr
fooom
blamm

(crreeeeaaak….ieauoeauoiieeeehhh)
font-font-font-FONTblllaaaAAMMMM!!!!!!

eee-oww, eee-owww, weee-oww, squeooowww, wee-oww, wee-oww… oww… ow.. ow. eee…

[.....................]

fzzssssssssssssss…FWOOOOOOOSSSHHH-BAM-BAM-BAM!!!

[krx...zzrkxsss...kkrrrrr...whrrr...zzsssssss........]

—–
(no, i’m not crazy. it’s just that the other day while at the office i suddenly felt dog tired and bored out of my mind so i let my mind drift. it landed on something roland barthes said about experimental poetry being the only kind of language still able to express anything instead of being kidnapped and forced to serve power structures. so i thought i’d stage a sabotage on language in order to liberate it. in the end i found that describing a sabotage would counter that very purpose so i decided to just keep the sound effects. voila. and today just happens to be barthes’ birthday, so you may consider this a sabotage of the idea of an hommage, in his honour. (on top of that, hugo ball’s been sitting at the back of my head with a chisel since i was young, quietly but constantly chipping  away at my brain.) so i’m not crazy. weird, but not crazy.)

New man basks in new sunlight
warming neither body nor spirit,
light that knows no history,
that has no memory,
that has never seen Earth before,
cold indifferent light
that doesn’t hurt us – them -
but guides to a path that leaves no footprints
Everything is consumed by new suns
so that there can be no history
No burdens
No past
No knowledge but what we need
No wisdom but what others need to guide us

The poets sit with charred fingertips
dragging through the sand
spilt from all the World’s hourglasses
While their lips, mummified from heat, mumble profane prayers,
their fingers write in the sand,
words that are buried in new sand,
spilt from new hourglasses,
old hourglasses;
they will last a million years
but no new ones are made
In a million years
the World’s last hour
will cover the words
of Earth’s last poet
Earthbound icaroid, descended to the sun
raises his hand to write the last poem
Seeing there is no more sand
to cover his words
he senses there is no longer any need for poetry
so he lets his hand fall to his side
and falls asleep

while above, perhaps a new sun rises every morning
maybe sent up by scientists that are possibly still there
who would know?
when there are no poets to howl about it