Wednesday, 20 July 2016


Hermes in the park; now she´s thinking about that again.

Change of place and alteration of bright colour;

Yves Klein blue hot shoots out of this tube brightly


Blowing down the atmospheres, desert a negative.

There´s no such thing as a safe place. They live in a cold fashion

They are not listening clearly to the thrum


From the ruined cities in deserts, and dry lakes

Along the way. Excuse me, it´s Agemaki. Would I

Mistake you for Sukeroku. Even in the dark?


He said: A city will never be built on this spot, alive

With radiation. No pillars towers trees gates jugs of

Wine or windows. Or fountains statues groves.


Just the gorgeous music boxes and the longing

For the latchless close of refrigerator doors.

Wednesday, 11 May 2016


There´s a man waiting outside for you,
I´ve already heard; in the light and heat
And rain. Smoke and day.

No, nothing. Why do you say that again?
War is always in the background; a substitute
Word. Later on you can perhaps imagine

The gradual obliteration of well-made
Roads; the political agent leaning out
Of the window of the northern port

Towards the common world;
La force publique burning noble
Works, still, in the night´s edge.

Really, a more imperial caprice
You can hardly imagine.

Saturday, 29 August 2015


Looking through the trees at the green blue fading scene
Beyond accompanied by slight giddiness at the beauty
Of the mechanism under musical fountains and

Artificial skinny silver songbirds wrapped in their cloudy
Heaven of mother-of-pearl,  he saw all kinds of war then.
I, myself, could not imagine the manifestation of this trompe l´oeil.

Haggard with watching, he said it was like being
In a bar full of violent prostitutes killing with impunity,
Sunset´s elusive viridian ray sprouting in the sky.

Well I was quite wrong about him after all. Not a hero
But a hospital case. They took care to ensure his facial
Expression revealed nothing, as a spy, or just as observer:

Everything that should have been laid out was simply presupposed
In the Edo evening. I have no memory of this: riding always invisible.

Sunday, 19 April 2015


In the yellow night; in that Edo night and he with pipe,
Yellow and blue bath robe, between the fingers;
Through the window behind him

The painting of the girl hanging
On the wall like a rifle, glints.
And also this moment and I myself.

The yellow sun rises on an age of gold,
Now the mad moon baying like an old crone,
The golden sun sets behind the hill

Beyond the streets, the leaf of the mulberry
Becomes satin in time. Dreaming of night rain
In the Ba Mountains I sweep it all up,

Things related and not. Lightning, flint lights up
These well-kept passable false paths.

Thursday, 28 August 2014


Blue clouds turn into greyhounds; the gentle superior is

The lovely sun in winter, the winter tonic breaking back

The tiger in the spring. To be absent minded and transformed

Thought Zhou, the arrow from the bow that never returns,

White horses and the plain cars passing by, the haunter of

The wild. Across the silver river, he remembered the short-

Cut to officialdom, the ups and downs of an official career.

Let the producers be many and the consumers be few, Zhou

Wondered if the brisk trade extended rather to the Four Seas

Whilst rich resources flooded the Three Rivers; then gone

Like winterinsect, summer weed, down the eastward-

Flowing streams to a jewelled palace in elf-lands hills.

Zhou waited. Then, darting along an amazing pavement

Of fact, it came out of the dark valley to move into the woods.