
The unicorn has
left his horn
in the anteroom.
It is a courtesy.
Besides. Some
things are better
left unsaid. She
took her face off.
an on-going series of poems inspired by the great Belgian painter

Unlike, say, the Gaelic
for kiss my ass, most
Declarations of In-
dependence are top-
heavy with awkward
or extremely dated
references. Some-
times they present
as an organic synthe-
sizer, a Granny Smith
apple perhaps, with a
sound set restricted
to industrial use
because of extremely
mixed reviews. At
other times as an
holistic framework
that purports to look
at all aspects of life
as spiritual practice
but then recommends
the confining of women
to the home & the use
of tanks to shell densely
populated areas. Colon-
ialism is a patriarchal
system. The methods
devour themselves.

Sometimes she con-
fuses words that
sound alike. Such as.
Violets & violence.
So. She thinks the
soldiers are off
picking flowers.
Have brought some
to her. She goes
out walking to show
them off. Back to
the sea. Dressed
for. All in white.
Morning. Her face the
color of violence. Some-
times she confuses
words. Not always.
Life is a parasol.

Pick a point in time
& stick a pin in it.
Attach a piece of string,
50 or 100 years long.
An area defined, ob-
long in a circle's arc.
Three sides with forest
lining them. A low
block wall across the
other. In front of which
a faceless avatar being
stared at by a windowless
mansion. Grass underfoot.
A plaster ceiling overhead.
Deadening the acoustics. A
silent century. How grand.

They're keywords. That much he recognizes even if he doesn't recognize the discipline that they come from. "The labels could mean any- thing," he thinks. Which means. He carries one himself. Or two. He doesn't think. Which means. He isn't. He appears. Walking towards one of two horizons. Which means. They may not be.

That was the year we wintered in Montparnasse. The ferry, I remember, was empty apart from us, might never have sailed except its skipper lived on the other side of the river & she wanted to get home that night. Up- stream was thick with forest. There were fireworks somewhere. I heard them, but I did not see their bloom.

thesis
                    poetry
antithesis
                    war
synthesis
                    woetry

History is. Typhoon.
The Bay of Bengal.
Ship washed up. Large.
Left there. Broken down
by locals. Scrap, metal,
parts to use. Such
plenitude never seen
before. New industry.
Now stretches for many
kilometers along the
beaches of Bangladesh.
Pollution prevails. Most
things done by hand or
not much more advanced.
Small men or children
in narrow passageways.
What air there is is
full of toxins. Is death.
Is dangerous. Is life.
Is nothing else to do.
The countryside destroyed.
     *
Breaking lights is different.
Is still to do with ships.
Broken down. Small parts
of them. Collected. Port-
holes. Filled with sky
or sometimes emptiness.
Is clean. Is dirty. Distance.

Short-range ordered
nanoholes can
improve the health
of rice farmers &
consumers or even,
with the addition
of the new bad-boy
vibe, form a picture of
a dying Michael Jackson
that's part solid, part
liquid. Such prototyping,
with its specially de-
signed cells & the use
of heat sinks, would
seem to be an inbuilt
aspect of our human
software; but the only
constant factor in
natural phenomena
is universal change—
a life-size figurative
re-enactment of da
Vinci's Last Supper
made from wax just
doesn't cut it as a
wonder of the world.