Lobas stuff

and this is what is.

times traveling through
eyes, passing.

during night, the glasses come off,
fingertips open to see past the dark.
brows twitch oncetwice, breath slides to
between the oaks and beyond their kingdom,
dimblue opens its wonder.

streets call. grasses dance.


..
the hum hums on,
through, for, with or without us.

dry leaves breathesmile
into the eyes of time,
earthbits pressed together
bring dragonfaces, spirits out

when it rains
earth leans into silence,
listens and is swayed
by the union of air and water,
the passion with which the wind
moves drops into patterns

the sun returns
and she sings.


.. .
and the hum hums on,
through, for, with or without us

this is where art is
where life breathes past the alltime:

in forgotten medieval alleys where
the voices still linger, cobble stones
open their soft centers to let faces out

in the old parts of the city,
the stone testifies from under the graffiti.
touchlaughterblood washed off
but singing through the cracks


.. ..
yes, the hum hums on,
keeping itself alive (with our assistance)

the myths are nothing
but rarely seen sides of
the everreal (as in clap
your hands, manwomanchild,
before you kill another)

in the morning
the grass stands still,
singing bones out

the streets
close their mouths
around memories.

the view, while not painting:
a magpie's head tilted,
admiring a windchime
on the balcony -

lapis and mirror shards casting
colours through windows,
across rooms,

inspiration asleep
by the glassdoors, prisms
stretching across its back,
dancing into its dreamturns.

the constants:
bored layers of paint chapping
on badly varnished canvases,
winterdry lips sighing for moist,
forgotten light chasing itself
in circles on the floor.

leftovers:
an inspiration's daymares.
a magpie's laughter.
the winds.

and so.

she feeds the beast and wakes ruffled,
body aching from runningfever,
images clear but frozen in motion,
smells stale on her fingers
and she says "blood and soil", she
says "blood and soil" she says,
"i am because of this hunger".


this hunger has no beauty, no grace.
it moves illjointed through times,
scrapes the layers of every absence
to find a presence of any kind,
to dig up the dirtcore hidden
under the many woodfaced masks.


she rises, passes through circles
where spirits still mumble last nights casts
charcoal symbols smudged into gray
along the chalklines of tired soles and hands
and she's stum
bling on the candles,
stumbl
ing on the candles,
burnt,
trading prayers for curses,
trading her soul for his words
undressing the pure
to wear the whore


because this hunger has no logic, no sense.
this hunger is unholy, more sacred
than the essence,
this hunger is what comes
with the pulling of strings,
the leaving behind without walking the steps,
is a month of slow cramps
before eternal bleeding
("pour me out" it says
"pour me out, it says
"let me feed on myself").


she breaks taboos and enters
the land of warningsigns,
grabs the devil by his silent tail,
pours herself into his eye.
and there is a notion, a feeling
of towers falling in the background,
but it is too late, yes,
we're erasing the fates, see
the dolls are already pinned and melting


and there is no pain, no grief
only the rush of fluids
through veins and cells,
because this hunger has
no breath of its own,
it simply is until not.

this is what is:

nights inbetween the dimblue and
days bruising them with other colors.

she;
pain
ting.

canvases and walls
speak new languages,
reinterpret ancient prints.
modern caves grow around
velvetpanthers on golden backgrounds,
wolfmanerotica on unwashed skin.
their hairs like roughblack silk against flesh, against paper
and her eyes closing around their movements
over floors, through rivers, across mountains.

this summer exchanges words for images,
late nights for early mornings.
poetry hangs reluctant
to fall from fingers
soil the book.
lines come and go
comeandgo, rip
away with the mouths opencloseopen.
strange and violent they have
become strange and violent.

she
blames it on the hunger,
stops the words in thought and goes for the soap.
white and foam will wash them clean, she thinks,
from the iron forming on her tongue.