Write slowly till it’s done.
Each letter bites its mark on skin.
Write only one by one
as many letters you can stand
tattooed with care from within
by heartbeat only, not by hand.

Draw letters like the spiders do
or rusty nails on bare skin,
or tooth or claw or firebrand
or tiny chisels which go through,
as many words as you can stand
and manage yet another grin.

Draw letters to redeem
the golden ink and golden seams:
poetical sawing machines
of needlework on your skin,
as many verses they could stream
on the imaginary human hide
inside as dark as light outside.



Growing up wiser by the tooth,
climbing by nail on the slope of the booth
spewing shameless photos of your youth
in train stations, department stores and pharmacies
where you developed dependencies.

Windows reflect more than they contain:
clouds, faces of love or looks of disdain,
unyielding desires conceived without pain
leading to grievances. Nail by nail
breath by breath, tooth by tooth without fail.

How does the human canine fits
in the mouth of the nature which admits
many a fault but never commits?
…animal shadows growing longer to shield
human pallor staining the field.


1 0

I am 4 or 5 years of age.
Were we live, there is a brick wall in the backyard and a wooden door cut into it, always locked, white letters painted on it which spell “welcome”.
One day I see the door half-open and I am getting through, heart pounding. I am facing a junkyard of sorts. On one side, there is a very tall whitewashed brick wall. There are some empty chicken coops on the other side spilling out feathers, dried droppings and dried eggshells. There are cloth lines and white bedsheets slowly swelling their wet bellies in the morning breeze. There is a big empty rusty metal vat on the ground and a small cube in the dry grass under my feet, a chalk-like cube of the brightest cleanest blue, almost fluorescent. Beyond the wooden fence in front of me, I see the top of an enormous multicolored structure of fabric, ropes, small flags and lit bulbs in the morning light. It is a circus but I don’t know yet what a circus is. I stand still, unable to move turn around and go back, locked in the light and the silent breathing of the space around me, like a fly in amber.




( shoulder blade )

Bones washed as required
by the Eastern rite
in the Western waters.
Read the tattoo
on the bone of the shoulder blade
where the memory of a feather
lingers. He wished he knew.




If dying requires patience, this ship is breathing its death
as slow as the tortoise breathes her life.
By itself at last, emptied of people, of their things, of their flags.
Naked in the sun like a well-used pruning knife.
Steadily failing, stubbornly yielding,
deaf and blind to better hear and see.
Iron blooms, thirsty paint curls like leaves
and ropes unfurl soft stems to join the brother tree
bearing apple pears and peaches alike,
fast anchored in the heart of this absence of strife.

Trying to find water in the midst of the ocean is hard:
here is your dowsing rod forked as it should.
Trying to build an infinity column of paper is hard:
let’s ask the wise man of Paris how he would.
If dying requires patience, this ship is breathing its death
as slow as the tortoise breathes her life.




One comment

  1. Inspired by the post of May 29/2011 and others: Magically evocative… Beautiful to witness an artist who can interchangeably paint with words and create self-standing words and images with paint.

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