Brain Cricketings

There are crickets snapping in my brain

& you cant hear them

I describe them to you but sometimes

you can only see their legs.

You dont notice that I am not here.

and you dont love the mystery of where I belong to - the earth

I belong to a skin & this mud on my feet is me too

And that cricket clicks his tongue with beautiful menace.

You put your ear to my head and hear

nothing,

but the beetles inside your own head

and I can see their faces

but they never look at mine.

Love is a word said too often

from the lips of others
but with you its real.

Cobweb love

Look into the abyss of my head

jump right in lets not pretend

to be in the right direction

for we are lost

tangled in each others hair

cobwebs of a thought.

and to feel these fingerprints

caminando

on these dewy spines

im arched

your a shadow in me now

following the feeling

of a letter written in your eyelids

your a symptom of my disease

and i’m the asphalt on which you walk

you watch this skin melt & shift

and i watch voices in your head while they talk

saliva exchange

is an impulsive butterfly

which wakes up my brain

and deep down she flies

to the heart of the dark

where we feel things unreligious

and your the wet pine needles in the forest

which dirty my toes

rotten natural histories are us

To want you like no other

Food, sleep, water

they come after

the thirst for your skin

or hunger for that sweated smell

tired for lack of

these colours paint in me

a poetry

grey & silken

to see a tunnel inside your brain.

cerebral patterns go north

to a new white world

where the light is made transparent

a million pixels alive

vibrating & assaulting one & other

like this bed

changes me

folding into you

till these animals are one form

La cocina viajera del oso y el zorro / The travelling kitchen of the bear and the fox

We sold Indian food in Buenos Aires in our early days in Argentina, here we document some of that story in snippets of video.

lenguas raras

these tongues who mutter foreign words

and lick the insides of my mouth

insight the madness fresh

to every breath

i tie i thought

inflating, infiltrating

like the smoke which wanders sensual

rubbing it’s fingers through air

whose voices transfer

like birds on a breeze

arises the cafe from behind

the nerves light up

fluorescent buttons

detecting vibrations
electrifying our skins

& History

Winter

Biting flesh in dark alleys

& the pavement cold as clutching hands

home travel & suppers

meals & suburban feeds

tormented nostrils of the streets.

We shudder home

in jackets weighty

to some colour for our skins

from these colourless gases alighted in night

our hands rub in heat

our kitchens abright.

& our worn young hearts shall brim.


Waking

The walls are white

the light is thin

like the skin stretched over my bones

Theres a stain shrinking in my brain

the earth is accommodating

and it flies by

this shadow, who haunts me sweetly

its painless & light.

and kisses me in the night

so i let him crawl into my dreams

& paint pictures of another world

a fantasy fresco

alive in my body

touching my paper thoughts

re-writing them anew

and fulfilling echoes of requests

I once held tight.


Walking

I head away

into the streets

the mighty floors

are full of feet

and whether I

am sane or safe

Ill choose to walk

the slowest pace

Altruist?

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream and not make dreams your master;
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And — which is more — you'll be a Man my son!
—Rudyard Kipling

things are hard.