handsome: a yung persons mystery

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if you can ride

straight to the camera, where your

torso is in the middle of the screen, will you

end at the edit?  Will your face

grow bigger and smaller depending on where i sit.

Don’t you know, we’re just poor!  we’re sad

and we’re hopeless.  Why did you make us

vanish like this?  the pillars of cartesia, the

monuments in orhan, they are lions of the future.

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embers with and without meaning

in a steel cup lies

hours of pain, liquid courage, steps

to the future.  the war at the end

of the age doesn’t wait for anyone

as fair skinned as you.  you run

around jerusalem at the

hour before minutes, where is

the stone building?  where is the friends

home?  live, imagine, shoot,

what we know we will become.  there is

pain and then there is patience, there is

paradise when the hour strikes.

cream ghost coloured mansions

if there is sweat and oil in

your eye and its night time

during the civil war, will you dream

of the latest fashions and

fancy absinthe?  no, this isn’t logical.  you

will reach to the man beside you

and honour his strength.  the lavender will

drop from

the ceiling and the orange peels

will reach out from heaven to let you

taste them, because their copper

hue will be real for one of the

real moments in your life.

red solitude in the empty garden

you look past the beat up old

villa and see two men who share a remarkable

number of features.  One is older and with a

moustache.  he gardens while the other does

tai chi.

 

there are nights bathed in

purple and salt, small percentages of

humidity, when the old men can’t remember what

domino was played last and

which one will be played in

the future.

 

“tomorrow, you’ll remember me and then

we’ll discover what

i was writing about.  I know you, which crimes

you’ve committed and the spell

that you’ve spoken over the

dusts.”

happy new york

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an orange peel drops from the

tiger’s eyes.  a man from the

east comes to him and

asks her a question, ‘what is

the relation of the animal to

the angels?’  When the tiger is silent

and the citrus activates

his sight, his ability to read lips, the tiger

waits to formulate her response.  She never

reacts though, because the tiger, herself, doesn’t

know what is an angel and what is not.  The man

takes his turban off in the river, to wash it.  Another

tiger pounces and tears out the guts of the

man, the first never having time to intercede.

to be dazed and then to be entranced

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in the silence there is whisky,

a trip to mars

is lost in your eyes, the future

bends back towards you, but there is

still no one there to meet you

when you’ve filled your glasses

with lavender petals.  passion fruit

falls from the sky, mars turns to

pomegranate.  welcome to

the campfire, when the sun becomes

a spell and your friends turn into

musical instruments.

nov ve are free

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She terrifies her parents by walking amid

the olive trees.  they say that there

is glass underneath the pebbles, sharp and broken

glasses, left by homer and

broken by Ulysses.

‘the philosophy,

you can’t handle it, we rhymes words

here, beyond what you can imagine.  we’re

new, physical, vibrations outside of

time.’

She takes up Jefferson Davis’s

pose, and freezes in bronze, the

winter’s metal, the one first smelted

at Mzaar.  She falls in the future, when foreigners

touch her fingers, when they feel

what are fragments.