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“le livre bleu” 

Terabytes.
lonely poets, writers, 
musicians and artists play here,
they wear masks that cover
vermillion dripping smiles
over sharp little wolverine teeth,
they drown their sorrows in their muses -
contemporary little monsters – Still Life, 
they call it “art”,

smiles;

gothic invested, they adore 
the overzealous use of the word “lachrymose”,
they swallow it up until they’re drowning
in the macabre applause, 
open mouthed
no sound,
they’re Munch-mouthed, fully immersed,
corsetted tight scarlet hung trope groused

strings plucked tight, breathless,
taking it all in, like they can’t resist it, 
like they are cannula fed;

silently loud as complex cats cradles
hawking their self-congratulatory genius,
a small unanticipated escape presents, 
they count sheep here, where all are singular herds, 
up against a wailing wall, waiting for words
like they are silver-tipped bullets
shooting straight slip knots 
around the throat of the hangman’s heart;

relief for the sanguine slaughter,
vocabulary trollops
asleep, they hear the music of astral trumpets,
while dreaming of awards, it’s quite the revelation, 
the exclamation marked notoriety,
and the morpheus applause,
they wake each morning with a fresh intent, poésie minted, 
while unseen around them, reality,  a larger life bleeds out,
the dead celebrate the living here;

they are, 
silent little minotaurs, 
monsters all rolling sweetly in Agape,
making love to fully ripe words
as if that is all they have voluptuous,
to live and breathe and make love to,
morning, noon and night
behind closed doors

poetic saviours newly baptised,
crying and smiling pink-eyed 
balling their lives up against a wall 
dropping the bruised into boxes
like new sold babies, 
worth something more or – less,

borne anew in their glamour poetry 
and ancient arts, they produce strange magick
in a haunted body bookmarked
in the moist velvet folds of misplaced anthology,
like a divinely preordained plan of creation
they can always rely on, cling to, they are hung up 
sacrosanct, like an unanswered vintage rotary telephone 
pinned to a wall, hanging ever-ready, waiting for The Call,

forever manifest
to possess anew 
fresh wandering eyes;

yet, 

poetry legs wide open,
like a wanton Modigliani,
censored, and then
immeasurably forgotten,
smiling demurely, nakedly silent
in a dark corner teasing and inviting,
placed just so, on a shelf
a distant oddly familiar voice whispers its echoes, 

“come, come, 
dear voyeur
Rome is inside me!”
the spine’s title shouts
“le livre bleu
il libro blu
here here in this infernal place,
just for you, 
“just” justice,
for you”

“come, come, 
dear voyeur, find me,
where all the wild things are!
drowning spectacularly 
always dancing in the shining redrum shoes 
in your heaven fathoms deeper with you, 
6ft under the hazey light shards,” 

you then hear 
that revenant voice whisper low, but crystal clear, 

“Come find me, come find 7, 
go slow, go fast, 
come close, come near, not far,
3 minds, 4 ascending doors, many rooms, no fear
I am always here, come find me now, 
come taste my power, here, and there,
come find me now, come find me my dear.”

the rhythm never stops the dance inside the hidden orbs, 
all disobedient pages, naive knaves with their words 
Liszting in their very own unique worlds,
like palm cards red the page like a face marked by war painted fingers,
what’s transcribed in the contract cuts sharp and deep like swords, 
like Wards passive and aggressive, like nurses walking wards like strict nuns unblessing
into neat little white cells, charged with checking wilting impatiens behind their curtains, 
they watch like nightmares smiling gently and empathically, 
emphatically bleeding out all colour from their decommissioned tethered patients, 
observed obedient now, rows riding feverish stages like jockeys whipping up a storm, 
banishing their cancerous Stage 4 demons to their new lovely waiting underworlds

like horses on a race track racing, the gamble
that paced a life run wide and far too fast -
the essence of the sound of each word 
like eidolon souls bare soled, their rapture rising 
seen and heard before your wide open windows, terror bites
like Halloween, those golden orbs like fresh plucked pumpkins 
like ghostly glowing coaches ridden, flying lit, in the distance closing fast in
burning Chinese Whisper lanterns, rising higher on the poetic neither here nor there, 

the passengers inside, are seen, 
and on each face is written clear

“a little Life escaping, 
is wildly driven”

such poems 
are meant for Halloween
for the unblessed unknowing


Candide Diderot. ‘25 



“We Can’t alter the past; what happened can never be undone.”


“You’ve torn your dress, your face is a mess,
You can't get enough, but enough ain't the test
You've got your transmission and your live wire
You got your cue line and a handful of ludes
You wanna be there when they count up the dudes
And I love your dress
You're a juvenile success
Because your face is a mess
So how could they know?
I said, how could they know?
So what you wanna know?
Calamity’s child, 
Where’d you wanna go?
What can I do for you? Looks like I’ve been there too...””
(excerpt, “Rebel, Rebel”/Bowie)


“Rome is not outside me, but inside me.
Her feverish sweetness, 
her tragic countryside, 
her own beauty 
and harmony, 
all these are mine, 
for my thought and my work”
(Modigliani) /(John 14 1-4). 


Terror Bite. 
“Devoted companion to the extreme sacrifice." 
Gravestone, Jeanne Hébuterne


Terabyte -
The prefix ‘tera’ is derived from the Greek word ‘monster’”.





Empathetic satire. 
Slip knot - vs - Hangman’s knot. 
Modigliani quote/John 14 NIV. 
Emily Dickinson’s, “Because I could not stop for death”. 
Metaphor. Imagery. Symbolism.
“Creatives”. Poets. Writers. Musicians. Artists.
Truth.
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