egg love

past the halo
luminous shell
hard and soft
smoothly self contained
my fingers pulsate in warmth
my limbs shoot out in urge
my core melts in sticky yolks

how it has grown, the all enveloping tree
uprooted me and gave my roots
my subterranean roots, roots that reach from the heart to the belly
from the hands to the heart
and bury their heads in the earth only shallowly
they dangle from my peninsulas
 into the sea

but to you they cling
but your roots they seek out
attempting synergy


how you howled and ran away
peeked back through the undergrowth

then let me stroke your fur,
and later
you let me see your yolk
radiating wholeness

you are here now, I marvel at the
ellipse that brought you walk towards me
i marvel at your solid form,
your weight that pushes the water away,
weights inwards

a poem about saying goodbye to a garden, and to spirits

Go out and say goodbye to the garden.

Bury the rest of the food in the garden, as a propitiatory sacrifice to mother earth, or something.  

Appease the bad, violent spirits that reside under cities, in the overflowing sewage, in the acid filled turf. 

Will you let me leave, without leaving myself behind, without taking that dark cloud with me, will you let me be happy and contented, will you make sure the flowers and herbs will not be sad when I leave?

 I dig this hole, I open this window to your world.

 I place these offerings at your door. 

Pastry for your subterranean mad hatter tea parties, 

cinnamon for your libido (may it always be strong and gentle), 

curry to perfume your sweat, I am sorry, possibly spirits do not sweat, do you emanate? 

Asafoetida to calm your hysterical outbursts,

 chipotle to be sweet and lively.

 I give you this quince, as an apple, as a sign that temptation can be rotten, and as a repast for your acolytes, the earthworms.

 I give you a kiss, I close up the gateway again.

 I say a last goodbye , 

I am on my way.

a poem about the spanish sun, and about love

the sun will drag its burning face of rotten milk
across the mountain and emerge
scowling, winking
at its own glare

for a long moment

it will be behind the bushes
it will set them alive
ablaze
and it will burn them to cinders
leave a cracking corpse
its thin arms outstretched to the water
seeking atonement
praying for rain

and the ships will burn on the horizon
lighting up the tracks left
seeking atonement

I will dance by the light of the burning bridges

the sun, I always thought,
would take you away from me
burning down the velvet and moisture of the night sea
crumbling Perelin

the relentless sun
always it has seemed kindred to what is harsh in him

the sun, sometimes
burnt my face into the dust and yes i did
walk by the light of burning bridges
to the shore

a poem about words left unspoken

what an acrid, sour taste
the words formed but unspoken

born into my throat
hesitating on the threshold
bread burning at the door of Vallejo´s oven

decay on my tongue like little firry animals
turned into roadkill
like little turtles that never reach the sea.

snatched and devoured by the brown birds of inertia and fear

wash them in spirits
smother them in cake
dissolve them in tears

a poem about feeling uncomfortable around the help

saying
a guilded cage would be too much
I say
a gilded, or possibly a silvered, corsette
slightly restrictive
my breath a little shorter
always a tiny pebble of guilt in my throat

being friendly
 I feel like an euphemism
being familiar
 oh, they might hate me
being distant
look at the tyrant

the broom shuffles and circles around my feet,
I am in the way

my idleness is a rock
around me, industrious waters work,
fuss, work
the rock feels a hollow nut
whom am I fooling?
Why do I exist?

a poem about moving from London to the peruvian jungle, and about fossil fuels

Exchanged muddy, grimy soot

weighty stones, steeped in time and power

exchanged it for the juicy green,

the dripping leaves that sing their sap

the wooden houses that rot and sag

then are born again in fresh timber

leaves and fruit that die to nourish other leaves

nothing clings to time

and yet,

dust and grime collect even here

Here also the black film settles where humans walk or drive

the black film and mist that is the ghost of towering creatures long forgotten.

Here also

we burn the puddles left by extinct life, the black abyss of forgetfulness

we burn them to feed our hurry, our need for bright colours soon forgotten

and here too, dust gathers.

the sand spilled by the hourglass,

the dust we spill as we dwindle into decay and oblivion.

here too, where people gather, the luminous green is stained, 

and dusty with our ashes.