Enigma Unmasked


Enigma Unmasked 


The Sapphic triangulation is falling apart.

O — lingering a bit, such fragrance, that tight hug.

That summer of your Italian kiss, a dream without.

Along the Merri Creek. Up

On the hill. Over-

Looking at the shimmering/orange deadliness.

The word is not but the sound of it is droopy.

English does not have characters;

It is made from memories and sounds.

Same as triangulation.

Three of us, three kinds of memories, two different sounds.

Your love, my resin. He is everything I want.

You play the harp.

I mistake rouge for rogue (memory), rim for rhyme (sound).

The triangulation requires a third one:

Both necessary and unnecessary.

Screenshots are necessary; they capture the ephemeral, ethereal.

You play the harp. He listens. I take screenshots.

You can die now. Stop playing the harp.

Or I can die now. You keep playing your harp.

But he cannot die. He, a demigod.

Perhaps I am the third element, the unnecessary one.

Do not linger. Die now.

I shall swallow, swallow the O.

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The Violent Red


The Violent Red


The violent Red is a powerful mantra.

It forces you to forget but

you remember. The violent Red is a

knife that cuts mandarins open

but the smell of raw meats

oozes. The violent Red is a pair of

hands that strangles you to death

then makes an epitaph for you.

The violent Red is bottles of wine

made of blood — only,

the blood of bleeding sunflowers

dazzled by the sunlight. The violent Red is

an espresso, short and intense, like a

hippo that crushes your head with a kick

or a stamp. The violent Red is a self-burning

metasequoia blaming its deciduous leaves:

how violent could a leaf be to fall away from me?

The violent Red is the smell of the sun in

your clothes, the smell of ash, the smell of dust.

The violent Red is an icemaker

turning every flow into an ice cube.

The violent Red is an enlarging ice cube.


Could there be an ice crack?

Let there be an ice fall.

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my fists on it

as if I could smash the table


same phrase, same talk, same question, same



I am tired of this recuring phase

I don’t want the sun

or the moon


I don’t want your

illumination, lunatic beam of love

your rebuke, your concern


I want

a total


a continuous darkness


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