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.