`
Frantic Angels
Suddenly stopped — green
or red, it’s immaterial.
Muddled sounds, yellow lights
soft-spoken voices lacking polish.
Fearless hands drive consumption to the abyss.
The touch fills with smells and scratches
(from a car alongside a pleasant
voice mentions gloves).
The cylinder grinds guilt and visions
once precious papers, loved clothing
withered flowers. And yet no one is about
to pay any attention to their obsequy.
Gestures and honking, for
time is money.
And the frantic angels with inarticulate cries and “come on”
and clipped words carry on.
Trained in swinging
they manage to avoid the bag’s filth.
On the cassette a mounful cantata
is slowly sawing away at the unspent.
And the tipping buckets are emptied
and the automatic doors open and close
mashing, among other things, ulterior appointments.
The noise becomes one with the outflow
of Johann Sebastian.
Ignoring the stock market index
they just dream of soap and water.
Till that: “Drive on, mate!”
and time’s wheel turns again.
`
*
Too Young and Too Shy
Downy chin
with an oblique cut on the tip.
He does what he can with his hands
and the needle-pricked skin
glows through his shirt sleeves.
He’s begging for money
and the look of passersby freezes
on his white teeth.
I place a note gently on his palm
and venture: “How will you spend it?”
“I’ll buy myself a roll, I’m hungry.”
And more platitudes and monosyllables.
Too young and too shy
to name mortal hunger.
`
*
19, Rue de Melezes, Bruxelles
to Angela
Palm Sunday Eve and with a blooming whiteness
the garden bids the equinox good morning.
A kiddy moved the globe
blushed at his mischief
and the eastern corner flushed.
How strange the light at the heart of Europe
it brightens the dogs’ fur
and dims the neon signs.
How strange the light! As if borrowed from Delos,
offering euros as security.
How strange the light! Rimbaud and Verlaine
are shown wrapped in snow.
And how strange those birds
inscribing shapes from the deep in the sky.
Fine weather, says a voice
as if not having spoken for ten days.
And a tree of unknown name
insists on leafing in the whiteness.
The crack under the eye has reddened
the rush’s yellow ready to burst.
And may time treat you well.
`
*
Local Guides
In Phaestos he insists on portraying
The queen squatted on the toilet
And invites the visitors to follow suit
At Malmaison he reeks of alcohol
And commences the conducted tour with:
“The Emperor, or Napoleon, if you must…”
He bids you stand to attention before the desk
On which the Civil Code was signed
At Breteuil the prince himself escorts you round
Shod with rubbers. His four offspring
Sell picture postcards of the castle
In Miramare he goes into ecstasies
Over a china tea set
Adding that Maximillian was served with it
On the day he left for Mexico
He goes into the minutest details
Down to the brand of tea
At Farouk’s Montaza Palace
He keeps alluding to a treat
And when we reach the royal chambers
He discreetly steps aside
And we see an open volume of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”
– Narriman was reading it on the night of the coup
In the monastery of Kaisarianí
He tells us
Of the visit of a Nazi archeologist in forty-one
And suchlike
In Duino there’s no guide
The Castle is private ground
Admittance is forbidden
Even to the “angelic order”.
`
*
Two Tables
Silent, he diluted his drink
With ice and water
At times the glass appeared to vanish
And it wasn’t the only trick that
Light played on him
The noise filtering through noise
And shattering the surface
Became music
That she was a model left no doubt
Sitting next to a Darby and Joan
She looked in her vanity mirror
At eye level.
Now the hat
Conceals the mirrored flaws
Cutting in half the allergic nod.
In vain you drag your health around
You phone and the coil enwrapps you
You talk slang
Shadowed by bankers
Accountants insurers coppers
Survival is touch and go
As even the night
Has their interests at heart.