Alone In An Airport

all the concessions have finally closed
the luggage tags likewise now unravel –
i’ve spent the night in an airport alone
even the cleaners have all gone home …

out on the tarmacs the rain is a canvas
the planes are invisible up in the sky
at every counter the shutters have risen
only perfumes of the flight crews linger

the terminal’s redevelopment is complete
now there’s nothing left here to expand
& duty-free shops disappeared long ago
inside the food court a fake fern sleeps

departure boards flicker like r.e.m. dreams
but the gangways are empty of tired feet
the veins of the airport throb in safety
nevertheless i will practice my tai-chi

i use smashed windows to create my murals
ticket stubs provide my small fire with fuel
i walk naked through the abandoned latrines
in arrivals halls i will begin planting trees

Tintin & the Death Star

i thought i smelt bad on the outside!
now with this insufferable goon solo
hacking my insides away only to reveal
this succubus (this blonde boy tintin
i will revise the absolute truth of that
observation – phew! not a good start
i’ll say – & how he’ll go on to blow up
the death star (well that’s anybody’s
guess … whistle, snow-soaked winds!
hoth will turn my jellied intestines
to marble or glacial glass … within
its arctic embrace this taun-taun lies
in stasis waiting for jabba’s blowtorch
to thaw my ice-ripened scheme (yes his
daring shall be the subject of works
by post-soviet sculptors in a primeval
soup version of the earth (should its
release date ever come to the attention
of the censors … they’re everywhere
here you know even these snowy wastes
i call home (i’m sorry did i mention
milou? inside my cave grave i am a sole
tear whose trajectory is the radiance
of my native field (but he will melt
into being inside their mini-planets
from which the evil below has been
systematically eradicated armed only
with a snow-pistol & a drunken step –
tintin sensationally defeats the empire!
pausing only to scream as he destroys
what might once have been his dead dog.

Kunst-Wet

two intersecting lines radiate strings of heart beats in four times double the directions secreting small agents into the surrounding streets & lanes transfers of desire stilt-legged voyages hour-burst rambles freshly-bottled smell of the underground random splices of muzac shred the dark corners of an interruption clock’s soundless alarm men follow women towards escalators triggered by their muffled boots the station entrance collapsing out into the waffle prints of passing tramline desires meanwhile you’re down there stroking tokens that get stuck in the machine above our heads amongst the stars giant pulsing nuggets of steel erupt in longing while the red lights blink delaying our union by variants of minute-long bursts of motion this is the station called silence at which i long to get off with you so as to emerge into some blinding shower of certain life-affirming illuminations as blades of wet rubber hack away at the heads of screen actors we shoot our own minimalist movie under the smurf blue on white of kunst-wet this hyphen between breaths where electrons & whole atoms wander aimlessly plotting dotted lines on imagined vertical sheets of glass & of her far-flung snow-bound commune dappled with spots of rain love.

Phone the Sky?

look up to the sky and phone me … don’t leave home without photographing it … never wake up when the stars are text messaging … just hang up when the delay starts messing with your head … all your italian credit is dead … gone to the great numeral zero in the magnetic strip sky … trying to reach that number only lovers call … jamming the sunet’s network … some giant oak split in a diagram … radiating waves of coverage & false debris … stay connected for me … don’t cry out unless the chorus calls for your participation … my straight-edged blossom arrow of hopes that tingle … showering the room with keystrokes from a slowly-revolving death star sculpture … or bogus html … dead links to a long-extinguished star … no hope now for the wholly-darkened skies … a band of eight string numerals teleports dawn … the sleeping airliner tracking russian airspace … a dragonfly on a rollercoaster … picture this when the batteries are dead … all the ipods have gone out … i will phone the eastern sky to you … only eight hours ahead … eight hours behind … in your sleep.

Abendland

in abendland our eyes only reflect
the windows of real estate agencies
couples roam there; small dogs shit
wherever they like; everyone has a
slightly bulging belly in abendland
& guitar music is de rigeur; words
like de rigeur are never used; rivers
flow & wood are pictures hung up in
galleries frequented on sundays &
feastdays only; post offices never
close; old audio cassettes remain
relatively unavailable sought after
only by newcomers; phone calls are
monitored & can only be made from
inside hastily-assembled booths; &
there are no television channels –
only movies with in-built & hard to
avoid advertisements; girls wear
stripes & old boots that make their
ankles look skinny; boys maintain a
gruff persona only enhanced by their
permanent thirty six hour growths;
love is an absence, or closing time;
garbage piles up but nobody seems
concerned in abendland; beer comes
in bottles that the homeless can
collect & then exchange for pennies
or one more beer; poetry has not
yet been invented nor cricket which
would be absurd; simply wait in line
for your university qualification;
break your baguettes in half so that
they fit more easily inside plastic
bags; buy slippers that muffle the
sounds your feet make as they pace
the confines of your apartements;
but never sleep or smoke or stare –
here in abendland staring is only
for real estate agents & couples
looking through windows & the poor
little turkish boys in our dreams