found objects

a better choice of

words perhaps but

now the mousetraps

baitless and mute

drifting in disco illusions

they are merely found

objects like seaweed

quivering in a collection

of sunday afternoons or

submissive obsessions

in a b/w documentary

and so you walk on

the search neverending

black vinyl boots

shiny and cruel

laughing gas and

pretty edibles and 

you watch with

fascination as passwords

dissolve in an abstract

dance of comic strips

the walrus

the moon is sightseeing

and wanders into a field

of disillusioned tulips

you stay behind to keep

an eye on the walrus

come to sit on the edge

of your bed

says the walrus wetly

a gun the colour of soot

was found by a child

faraway somewhere

you are surprised

soot was added to the

list of ingredients

the walrus sobs quietly

silence 1

you listen to the echoes

of your silence

interrupted collections of

sounds you once occupied

(a train departs  another arrives)

you trade yesterday's theatre

for today's performance

of silence its echoes

 weaving in and out

of arrivals and departures

silence 2

the hour you shredded with

memories invented and not

litters an empty dream

laced with nylon darkness

forgotten silences offer no

respite and the wound on

your illusion is infected

and festering

you  place your wounds in 

circles that are never perfect

and you ask yourself why

you cannot ever make circles

that are perfect / why you

invented memories and

you wish you could remember

all the silences you have

forgotten

you yearn for a campfire

silence 3

and then a door opens

there are connections

here to motion pictures

bobbing on waves

toward mystical

negative spaces

time can be found here

and time can be lost here

in this foggy landscape

of raw and seductive misery

and you ask if this is

where the camels sleep

it's a mirage the dark and

heavy silence finally breaking

and wondering if you have

said too much wondering if

there was more you could

have said you close the door

leopard skins

in the morning there

is snow it came

in the middle of the

night

the snow

soundlessly in the

middle of the dark

night

the snow

descended on

the earth

you drink apple wine

and the memory of 

nothing

exists in the murky

puddle of the 

melted snow

then a thought arrives

a thought of leopard skins

clean was

the snow

that landed on your

path then

it melted and

the melted snow

turned murky

leopard skins

are not murky

imagine

imagine if you

will a landscape

filled with bleeding

voices unvisited

 and

scattered here and

there

shifting spaces

the cruelty of

twisted reflections you

escaped only to

get trapped in a tangle

of regrets and longing

imagine if you

will         a landscape

filled with pastel

strangers  their 

unpredictable 

zigzagging chaos not

totally unwelcome

imagine if you 

will

a landscape with

a single easy chair

(to sit in)