current fragments

I face the heavens but cannot breathe

So I turn to the right hand Path

where

Once, sand gathered at the head

Of the bed

from the shore a day before, where a

Dog comforted my boreal

Grief ( or

Of

Soil from

The garden of the dead)

---

I turn to the left hand path

Banks

Of thirst

from

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

---

I

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” 

23

23

components of bread on a white plate
hospital eating table
armchairs alongside corridors, sick people in fetal positions
a mothers’ heart stops. she stops breathing.
she comes back. current status unknown.

Meat curled or layered on a plate
tables turn. men, foreign to each other.
tables as routes as illness as health. tables adjacent. table of the tabernacle. components of bread on a white plate.

21

kneeling
subservient
third world country

I know this dirty staircase
this filth filtered sunlight

I’m not on my knees
I’m bent low
suckling on the most black first
then the cream of a lighter shade
there’s the sickly yellow
and the whitest last

the serving is modest
but I’m bent low
finishing every drop
by soot and noise and street

13

13

strange diversions that began with night and ended with night

farther and farther from home but close visitations to a place once called home

the journey is prolonged, through winding streets blinding lights, silent hospitals, riverbeds

absent turns, dissolution of minutes

the wrong bus is taken, night  deepens 

it’s an obscure moon as we reach interchanges 

other gender profiles look around confused as we enter the place of trees

 this is our final stop but have not ended 

we are carrying a green obstacle, a stellar thing that mixes signals and open the ways

the lady in red is a perspiring statue, loaded with godhead and grievances 

her black obstacle calls to our green obstacle but we do not lock eyes. 

the other people around us stand up, make retching noises and look like they have lost blood. Our talismans turn to hide their faces in our bodies 

it is not yet our time to go

We could have reached home days ago but  the sound of loud motors move in and out our heads and we remain at the station, motionless 

the signal says our transport has arrived, we stand and peer west but see nothing.  things fall as if error of gravity but it is the errors in our minds that have troubled realities

our muscles yearn for warmth, for running water, for close proximity. Then finally, we find ourselves in the swerving of lights

I think, in part, it’s the hunger

portents

/

highway / tour bus
_
rogue cell phone signal
a clear, aural hallucination
hunted by sick voice speaking of mother
past the border
through ghost static land line alarm
broadcast level peaking, piercing holocaust heaven
infection from the mansion, spreading to streets
soot poisoned sidewalks, sewerage heat

school
_
school kids locked in a den of predators
something is loosed and blind in poltergeist halls
sniffing out glands and urine stench skirts
phone batt failing
torch light dying
closed door cubicle
festering abortion nest

halls unlit for decades, abusive cane stroking teeming darkness
chalk and dusters in mouths
nails on the blackboard quoting blood types
malevolent monochrome sight and

noise
_
only noise keeps terror at bay
jaded crystal chalices clinking against chipped champagne glasses
bent nails rusted by haemoglobin, swirling in toxic stainless steel
grating, friction, charring screeching
keep the noise coming
or our breaths will be heard

_
#writing, #poetry, #irvingpaulpereira
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imposterelations

we make contact in an elevator, ebony tar walls, sunset light captured in fission glassware (loading bay dimensions)

she can see through synthetic skin and fabric, unhidden salient organs. I avoid my own nakedness.
(mating dance activated)

we will be bed fed, turning like anti-gravity koi with filament arms embracing.
(elevator morphs into hotel room.)

touch her face, her flesh
(rubberised, moulding, falsified accents) unwilling to break through thin layers of make up

we will make out, kissing clones of who we were

while

the back of minds study airfields, tombstones of fire or holographic flags flying, (something foreign descending from skies, nucleus defying, infiltration)

we will be extracted from each others’ histories, sent out by opposing missions, into red atmospheres, out as advancement (turning into wasteland failure )

love ends with smoke and current

years later i serve bucolic church
she appears as a string of numbers in a phone, then in the flesh before medication time
she pulls me away to the canal, behind the war monument wall

“you were always there when i heeded help”
(luring) there are missing speech patterns in my calculations

the people have eaten the body of the king but i have not
(she has robbed me of time, of parents, of watching the targets, front of pew)

there’s no history in her i recall loving
a stigmata / tabula rasa /
all child-ling and empty (a distraction)

under deep cover, my mission isn’t over, but here she is, asking for therapy as my mark vanishes among the servient

__

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pet will sense the future of our embryos in her navel

She’s a ghost eating bun

 

I’m a dog walking man servant

 

our streets don parallel identities

our paths refuse to waltz

 

I’m a moist bun in her dry mouth

she’s crackling leaves under wet paw

 

dog defecates

oblivious to the longing of our kind

 

I pick her up with oblong obit pages

fold her like leaves of dessert

there’s ink on my fingers

buds in her ears

 

we hear morse codes of crickets together

she knows I’m staring at her dress rehearsal

 

dog turns to pee in the dark

 

hear, motorcycles on distant highway

there, bun wrappers, isolated in bins

 

I come home to the lapping of water bowls

an ozone layer of sadness in my weak eye

 

#dailypoem, #dailywriting, #irvingpaulpereira

girl from car

the streets. they find you
even when one is out there in the wild

despite the desert
you cross a road
watching the black sedan
watching the truck coming up behind it

(all manner of sandstorms follow vehicles)

black door opens and a girl-child is pushed out

the truck swerves to avoid the girl
the truck hits you, but you shoulder it to a stop

there’s no blood on the girl’s face
there’s no fracture in your bones
you take her hand
with calmness, she recites her trauma

“he ties me up,
moves me around at will.
two big strips of tape on my lips.”

the pervert in you is incited
but it’s only right to bring her to the government
and not to your basement

you point

“there’s a police post over there”

you walk over with the girl in her light purple pyjama set
two plain clothes officers come through glass doors

“oh no, guys…are you closing?” they are carrying gym bags

“there are more cops inside”

we go in
there’s a crowd, a number system, an admin clerk at a desk
“fill out the form”
what form? i see no papers.
admin cannot explain clearly.
you watch an older woman write on yellow paper
You ask admin, “where are the papers?”
the admin clerk is confused

the girl is talking to a caucasian woman, in a light purple top
she has children with her, all of them the girl’s age
i’m looking for another way to report

admin says the subject matter’s state
won’t be as important as other states.

I’m annoyed.

“a predator pushes his daughter out of a car on the road.
that’s not important?”

admin says,“that’s o.k.”

i turn to find the girl.

she has gone missing.

where there are no more children

i will not speak of hazy storms

hiding the islands on the horizon

too late to say the night wind is coming

too late to warn the residents

I am sad i cannot discern the holographic planet

its veins and bodies of water, its neon jungles of life

there are vague illusions of people,

lined up on streets, awaiting inspection

I cannot inspect their bodies

because I am not one with hands or bodies

i’m forcing colours into shapes (futile)

i cannot ask for names,

I have no tongue for language

the book is lost in a cluster of meaning

its spirit, diffused

coaxed into depths too vast for being

the disciples, as children, are leaving the stations on unmarked trains

gone into vanishing horizons

there are a handful of us left, at least in this sphere of living

they are vague illusions of people, without a certain face or shadow

clothed in the trickery of rays

aged in either years or days

in a neighbourhood with no humans

only sentinels remain, concrete and looming

levels upon levels of vacancy

by the inroads

I spot temples made from heaps of broken furniture

signs of prior life, wood turning fungal in the night winds and rains

if you ask, what is shelter?

i will point you to the shore

from there at least we can wait

for the islands across the sea to reappear

for a depth of being to change or emerge

for the giantess to come through her witchcraftain portal

through that great metal complex with no door

i’ve been here before

on a white bed between the trees

before the yellow tower

i recall the dog barking at the baboon

i recall the man with the metal detector

they are not here now

no one is here but the breathing jungle

and the risen wall where the highway used to be

separating the shoreline from the terminal country

dividing state from dimension

did it occur again?

buildings launched into space?

it was funny then

but to find craters where families used to live

to find upturned streets

roots of an old sea showing like innards

black and twisted and sucking on air

one senses the inevitable loss

i’ve lost the tongue for prayer before ruined cupboards and dining tables

maybe i’ll stand, unmoving, on the sidewalks

maybe someone, dreaming in a far away place

will appear before me, in random

trying to know my name

trying to sift through illusions

trying not to speak of hazy storms that make the horizons disappear

trying not to mind the night winds

howling through the skeletons of creation and playgrounds

do human dream of robotic sleep?

new mecha division

shipped from savage war zones

but still

blue armour’s glinting

exoskeletal shine

soot washing off in the rain

bomb wounds self heal nanotech

 

i’m really just a boy

buying the generals’ toys

it’s that fighter jet you see?

turning gladiator, pistons firing

the wonders of massive steel shaped blades

thrust into hick, kaiju skin

into the menace of tyrant hearts

military-industrial complexes

 

one jumps through television

cartoons, japanese fan-made autobots

into the real, the shuddering earth

“fiction is reality from another world”

gundam blocks out the sun

 

we hide in the shell and safety of mecha

behind armament, a.i., desires of automaton

an extension of our animal instincts

not to stand on the shoulders of giants, but to become one

 

#irvingpaulpereira