Saturday, March 31, 2007

difficult memory -a cycle

1.
Trouble
this night
will move
loneliness

its hesitant shade
soaking
asphalt sleep

the heads of
walkers
trembling


Pleasure
I wake with fever day

I make a greeting as yield

softening this evening
of remorse
howling with the dogs


Memory
the ravages
the city

not visible any more

the tombs
at last


Goodbye
human flowers
start words
filled with
long time
leaven of
an abyss


2.
Trouble
night also winds
its coil of hesitant colour
on wet bitumen
where sleep lends
its trembling


Wish
Observes its fever
of daily wake up

as fruit softens
remorse forms its dog
which destroys
memory


Recall
ravished suns
the city is not quite the grave


Valediction
a long time somehow
to be adjusted
which is a song of the world

filled with a miracle wild-life span
an abyss is a drug


3.
Difficulty
night equals
its isolation
coiled
the color of bitumen
bathed in half-sleep
tremolo of a driver


Beadings of Pleasure
Fervent, wide awake
daily paper, a good salute for now

apple shapes remorse
evening’s growl


Apart
those beatings of the sun
a city encrypted
not to last


Taking Leave
Beloved, in some way
not to be recorded

that is, uninstructed

it’s just the beginning
of closing
a word filled up
wild with miracle
like the abyss


4.
Struggle
this also equals night
this insulated ring
colours that sleep
point to hesitation
and where it’s heading


Delight
with wide zeal
according to the news

for good
the fruits forms

more night, that desert


Reminiscence
the villa
overthrows the visible
is not at last


Farewell
loved some way
more then not
close and human
now above miracle
the wild mine
as abyss


5.
Difficulty
tonight equals the east
insulated by sleep

a point in the road
wires leading

that hesitation
trembles and watches


Pleasure
the title
the program
the pilot

a newspaper
an accord
a fever

for good
with fruit
on form

of night
of remorse
of the one dog

that


Memory
that a sun predatory

of that house, overthrown

visible and dear

the last of


Goodbye
much is certain tho’ grey

of the way more than not

that the instructed world

is not one of poetry

*

And Memory
of the desert
of destruction
who closes

limpid as one word
wild mind
as the abyss

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