I face the heavens but cannot breathe

So I turn to the right hand Path


Once, sand gathered at the head

Of the bed

from the shore a day before, where a

Dog comforted my boreal

Grief ( or


Soil from

The garden of the dead)

I turn to the left hand path


Of thirst


rivers beneath , starving tangible dark growth  

lifeless crib

rigor mortis

Face down, I avoid the ecstasy of hogties 

devoid of blood pulsing 

My drowned avatar 

my criminal

my star flag of David 

films of final breathing

this shoulder then, still knows the damage of crosses carried 

that dangerous temper

the agitation of cancer, stricken 

the sounds of last stations and hours

  • to the centre then, the ancient 

mortier of dirtied light and static 

father of white noise

glaucoma gift for a 4K world


she bends her spine backwards

she in her glitter, sequined, crystal top 

a limbo rock 

wavering form

inverse cobra 

she, with her two white men in layered suits

bank vault  bodies

I chase them out of the house 

( my motherlode / motherland ) 

“get the fuck out !”

but without the energy of rage or malice 

  •      it’s an emptying of the house  – to remain in sacred unlit spaces, untouch the debris 

the cold electrical wires sticking out of plaster

maybe a ‘time from before’ exorcised 

the comfort of vacancy

  • (backtrack) 

like a corpse on a bus is he

sits he in flesh and skeletal frame

 too small for starched white shirt

 blackened oversized pants

I can almost smell his

skin of wax 

hair hardened formaldehyde 

pale as the horse from endtime 

I sense he’s an otogoya 

coming back to life

dropping snake scales from our eyes 

to chase away squatting spirits from the house

making space for landscapes

“washing out the womb”