forms

I Am a projection, surely
from the city of spirits
a flicker of candle
passed down from ever fire

the enterer of darkened places

I Am flesh, surely
a prism and not a prison
passing through walls
of caves and constellations

surely then, Am I like
an inner door
a gate-like being

an orbital path of eyes
searching skyward

stations of nacht – parts V, VI

V

the imps of night, visit
bringing gifts

the first brings me meat of fowl in styrofoam box
steaming grain, wheat, lost soup

he is late

giggling and shifty eyed
having returned from prison
‘for harassing a young one’

I know the traffic lights are confused around him
there is no hunger in me
he yabbers
he leaves
I sense a small pink dress on his person but he hides it well
I do not consume the offering

VI

the second one enters Chinese mall of labyrinths
red lanterns, massage women, cheap pyjamas hung on plastic hangars
clothes rack wobbling under strain
women eating lunch out of styrofoam boxes
the second one stresses
the escalators are confused about him
he scurries about, to buy my airline ticket

he is delayed

but I will still depart, sitting in a spacious room
lit by projector screen
flight path animations on the wall
the cities below us
arteries of snake lights
black oceans
weaving, rippling
punctuated points, glittering

I’m in a night room in the sky
the repose of creatures around me
the softly breathing
the hum of movement, the transatlantic

dimensions and hours and genius loci changes

I’m at a ballroom wedding
luxury and feline and designer handbags, fabulous people engorged in wealth, bridesmaids, tuxedoes

blood clots on the bathroom floors
red streams on the walls

he washes
he washes
spraying down the scene

blood and water
water and blood

(what is this intimate relations, between grand hotels and restrooms?”)

maybe the year is ending here
marriage of heaven and earth

images of guests in drunk positions are sent to my phone
stances, celebration, dancers in mid turns
legs cocked, knees bent, night dresses akimbo,
feathers in ruffled hair, peacocks and strange birds, curved flesh bent waist, winged masks
pictures after pictures appearing on my screen

I do not know where the bride wants me
I am here to anoint women of sequins and glazes
glitter on powdered skin

they are not at their oblong tables
they are scattered from their numbered tables
a disruption of sequences
posts and spots abandoned

the second imp of night still has my ticket
I watch the whole ceremony on the screen
in the wooden room, the sleeping room
on a ship, in the upper echelons of sky
far above the cities
streetlights below like lost and glowing insects
converging, dispersing, crawling through the crevices of dream

stations of nacht – parts I – IV

“there will be a second primitive age
of flesh marked by the aftermath of fire
ships, built from deadwood,
dense with soot and sickness

It will take us from the dark of somewhere, to nowhere
escape routes mired in ancient ocean floors
risen like a sub terrestrial creature
a mystery, sanctified by darkness”

I

this is not like the merriment of a time before
where food was served to the elderly
laughter and harmony between tables

perhaps we thought we were safe in our wooden towers
high above the unnamed chaos
I stood before ladders that brought us to our peaks

but somewhere within me
there was no rest
I clutched a white book
a remedy still trapped between its pages

the weak could not ascend
there were people with dead limbs, waiting

we had left them alone
left them to the ruins of the land

no one else seemed to care

I felt helpless

while there were elevators
they could not work
steel doors sealed shut
machineries of hope, silenced

father then, called me from a place beyond
“mother has been friendly to me” he said
together, in their quiet, I knew they were safe

II

we are not safe here anymore
our commander, despite his militant stature
is wet from sweat and toxins
sunken in bed, clamouring in slow motion

this wooden shelter is not like before
the walls are now blackened with decay
soiled by septic rain
damned by fierce damp winds

I call up drones for oversight
where are our scientists? our doctors?
the admin woman demands departure
there are not enough survivors onboard

a man enters our doorless room
flustered and frustrated
”with all your tech you could not find us!?”
his frightened daughter in tow
they were last to arrive

III

we set sail
either by sea or air, I cannot say
the lands of our fathers are failing
our depleted passengers are weak
we may or may not be on a star ship

the admin woman
reads out a full name from a black book
is this my white book, transformed?
those with the same surname step forth
thin, lightless boys, waiting in line to suffer

something isn’t right

I intervene, calling out a longer name
belonging to a boy I knew from before
‘he who was killed on the roads’
and yet,
here he is, emerging and eager to be sacrificed again

he steps through the disappointed throng
they must return to their benches
the boy who is called must go to his nest
he climbs into a black box
his life, an echo, dropping into depths

IV

at the end of journeys
In stillness, I am

time unravelling
ages pass

the ship shall become a monolith
a massive monument on uncertain seas
a great black casket of asteroid rock
bodies and forms of dead gods are chiseled from its sides
such an ancient mystery, a necromantic ark, mad not by human hands
an ancient ship from the star fields of death and destruction

from the foreign tomb
the boy will voice out as an old man
a distant calling, a muted thunder, a language unknown to the bloodlines of men

the ship shall grow with primitive dread
a mass, a complex, armour corroding,
old granite structures, sullen with soot

“this is our ark for a new olden age”

the ship shall sway on thick, lifeless waters
the sky, a blackened canopy of cremations
ashes of kings and newborns, geological entities choking the heavens
our progress reduced to tar and oil and blood of the earth
calling to shore where I stand

the corpse of the ark lolls into another
like the remains of worlds colliding

then

that which was below us
will be that which is before us

there will be only night

and the sea floor, our eternal deathbeds
Will be the only land in sight
wasted, writhing, the beginning of another time

ages pass
time unravels
in stillness, I am
at the end of journeys
the lighthouse keeper for a lost species

99

99 / 99

and how drunk
the infonaut become
barefoot with hunger

faced with endless place
of dune diabolical
monochrome room

and sought he shelter
on the wall of tespu

sought he beauty
‘terrible and profound’
of the 99

many tongues in one nation
drawn out by expedition

in the courtyard
where the shell of astronaut lay

into the bunker
into the disco
AMALGAM
under earth

under oath
sword into
core creatrix cunt of constance

“only the strong”
said he, gentleman
“only the strange.”

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira

a confession of tespu to his manucfactured duaghter constance

 

i know this kind of impending storm
like a lover
bruised, swirling, heavy hearted

 

she upsets the family kitchen above
messing up clothes line
so it dangles, disoriented, before my window

 

it’s full of lingerie on pink clothespins
they dance to pump blood into my organ
I reach out, to play among the undergarments

 

the clothesline unhooks itself like a bra
and tumbles into my abandoned house
into my pointless kitchen
into my quacking hands

 

I search for the skimpiest piece
the freshly washed among
large, flag like garments belonging to grandmothers

 

my fingers part layers hiding erotic treasure
no, no, no,
yes
my groin churns with excitement

 

but the voice of the woman from upstairs

breaks through the noise inside. I also
know this kind of inward storm like a lover

 

between my fingers
I finally find myself feeling out the fabric of
cartoon underwear belonging to children

 

colourful animals
printed on the backside of panties
are laughing and jumping through hoops

 

and in the crotch
is a letter from their mother to her younger self
painfully speaking of burden
of loving one girl more than the other

 

“but I can love them all” I say
my palms read like a sweaty, dark haven bible
“I am the storm inside the life of innocence.”

 

but only the storm is listening

 

upstairs

the house is really pointless and abandoned
i search my head for the voice of young mother
but only find a lost boy inside

 

I find difficulty
putting the clothes line back on unstable hangers
it dangles with the peril of lightning
threatening to let go
to fall into my wide aching jaws
to clap and to
laugh at me, uselessly jumping through hoops.

 

#irvingpaulpereira

 

 

 

98

98

in the last days of tespu
noir
sea spray

bed sheet
tangled with the veil of her
allegiance

a horizon of heat seekers
sleeping against the wall

wet constructs from the pit of nose
molten brain’d

rusting nail to hang lost pictures
phone numbers scrawled

shadows trapped in brick
tenuous in teeth
pure water

flower
yellow in its dusk
tusks of forgotten pleasures

taxidermy
dust
layered in purple rooms
saints of evidence

“maybe the bird lang”
she said
“vaccine the future”

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira

97

97

constance
sung of the damage in
brain of druqs

nightingale singed wing
of the nest
the unlit room

given single stalk of rose
for dinner years ago

constants
in hungry mode
cigarette almost finishing
tumbling around

her table of warped pages
color smearing across eyelid

constance
lov lov
of jonny poo
head up skirt

of office
lady mother camera
up dress worm scenics

trauma army armed with rustle dried paintbrush
scratching, curled

constance from the breakage age
reality male storm havoc

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira

96

96

babbling from the belly of the blocks near beach

echo of microphonic voices pleading or exaltations or croaking

it’s too bright for the frogs to emerge proudly

in swamp they wait for me as their child

but i am petulant, sexless, full of potent possibilities

like a chemical chain reacting with chemo on shore

face facing holes in the skyline, celebrating toxic exhaust

inhale, perpetrate, hallucinate, divine the instances of human failure

in urn, becoming babbling voice, proclaiming the end thyme

#99tespus #irvngpaulpereira