Dissonance of a dream.

the dark slithers, betraying the scarlet moon

into the mellifluous hunger in each haze,

a new mother of spring,

the hills, the silence of untiring wanton blood

alter ego.

the Prometheus death fit for humankind,
take it then
take it and see how we are born,
see how we’ll die.


lonely, born in the ecstasy
this root of blood;
walk away into
the forbidden, unmade road
split and wounded


arrayed in language
unnoticed in its death,
as the leaves survive
the siege of winter


your laugh
like a poison
to surge, the chill
when you look at me;
the dust of the horizon
shapes cruelty.


a fucked up dream
stares left in its presence
in the old city lights,
warmer than the protestation
that rebels against animal bones
for different gods, this sacrifice,
in the brutality that begs our need

mauvaises terres.

We drink red tea in the winter and summer
by the pale, ocean shore with rain
feeding on the sunlight with coffee beans,
and spoke in broken languages to each other
originating from your father in different countries of Europe,
he speaks almost a dozen languages.


illustrated in millenniums
where our scars fall,
while silence deranges
sanctity in the deep spines
and limbs of animals


One memory
death has fallen like the decayed fruit;
the shores have frozen,
and our bones are shivering


stretches the wings, forgetting the language
upon the sanctuary; midnight timbers, and the wind
murmurs a Hebrew song—
assails the salty waves in a coup, the air free of scars