by phoenix | Sep 12, 1988 | Poetry
I A dream in which the women were like Venus made me think of art and you. You’re a botticelli-baby; if I dipped a sheet of paper into your mind, it would come out marbled in oils and watercolour and with bits of moulded clay on the edges. Equally, you sculpt...
by phoenix | Sep 9, 1988 | Poetry
Worship where you can lest life become empty earthenware or barren circus rings. For some it’s a world of watercolour mood: search for it, hold it fast if you find it. Where you feel like screaming, do. Sound also can lift into the void and echo somewhere. If...
by phoenix | Aug 8, 1988 | Poetry
In theory, I can only write like me, but reality is less defined. I do my best not to steal from others, but some influence is obviously inevitable. If it could be wished into being, like a genie, I’d have a style that would shout my name. As it is, the lines...
by phoenix | Jul 22, 1988 | Poetry
easy now time is a fragile word betrays its obscurity like a whisper past and future blend into a dream that might come true. life’s a series of physicalities but how to report myself on the missing persons list remains a problem. it used to be I could look into...
by phoenix | Jul 14, 1988 | Poetry
I Allow me to disagree. The first presentiment is not shame — nothing committed, nothing to be guilty for. The first presentiment is an unaccountable loss, a feeling that there is something that was supposed to be done somewhere, a forgotten task that we may or...
