Hopework?

Don't fuss and don't bruise.
Stupidity, acting normal.
Charity and a dainty umbrella.
Feel a better person.
Living hot and cold easy for the slave.
Give him food and water, painful mouthfuls.
Constructions of delusions. Hopeful delusions.
Full tables and handshakes, burn some memories.
Steam rises from the medical tent.
Worried workers, dying nomads, poisoned wells.
Businessmen boldly invest, with a world of his assets...
Loyal toiling factory hands survive on a thin line.

Cyclops sky

Days of dirt and stress, blocked distress.
Only night would provide rest and safety.
To see the full moon dancing between rolls of oval clouds.
The moons intense light shines through an illusion. Of a cyclops in the sky.
As sunshine blinds too bright to behold, thanks to how sweet and cheaply dusk is sold.
The uncertain calm darkness it's blessing, it's scourge.
The animals that hide and those that emerge.
Under the full-moon, a cyclops sky, a potent night.

Frontline slime

Parading with a flag made of toilet paper.
Wind tears it up, and it's tacky symbol.
Washing your uniform in a toilet bowl.
The taste in your mouth the smell in your nose.
Marching in divisions carrying toilet brushes.
Soldiers all charge, the toilets all flush.
Generals cluster agitated together.
All worried of the weather in the sewer.
Floods of urine drenching the front-lines.
Flying bodily fluids and barrages of discharges.

In each other

Cheek and smile, god you are a portrait, why must I wait.
It's a shame having so much admiration, just to know it'll slide away quickly one day.
The good and bad in lusting mad, feelings overboard.
As you walk down the parade the city doesn't count.
But I count your steps.
Only being amazed makes me feel this way.
Would it be the right time to ask if i could take a bath in you.
Put you around me and bask in you.
Happy supplies in the cupboard, juice to conjure delusions.
You a mirage, a strange illusion.
Comforting sounds calm a brow and it's stressful movement.

Prehistoric

Large limbs drift and drop.
Trails of footprint craters.
Trekking across empty plains.
Seeking water and foliage.
Tropical sunshine on beast-like lizards backs.
Journey animal.
Sparse open land, herbivores.
Infiltrating packs of predators.
Life-cycles across a joined earth.
Rolls of flesh bulge with every step in and out.
Carrying a link in evolution through ice ages and volcanic fall out storms.

Scattered and limp

A ring of blood around a rancid sink, from crimson red to fresh flesh pink.
The speckled ash in the fire place. The dried tears upon his face.
Care dwindles in his mind, he ponders martyrs and hedgehogs.
War doesn't burden his heart.
He eats his t.v and the sitcoms leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
A crooked trunk on his gardens tree reminds him of his back.
He kicks broken pottery in the street, his path littered.
His friends swim in methamphetamines.
He just sits back and watches the world burn before the glows depleted.

Mist flow

Mist covers the hill tops.
Descending to the low-lying paddocks to hold them still.
Only then to be defeated by first light.
Vapor clouds robbing the trees. Passing and stroking the canopy.
Delicately running it's silk hands over the highland.
Mist that creeps along, a white semi transparent reptile.
Flying over the land after dawn, as a morning guardian.
Easing through ridges and valleys.
Wayward around the ranges.
Unique creation from moisture.
White shapes born in darkness then transformed into the landscape.

Silk wrapped in stone.

For all things bright and beautiful. Lie a thousand dumbfounded fools.
Each one unique in a cumbersome way.
The radiant beauty is too much to take in. the illusion of a chance in the same head of an imbecile is forsaken.
So many hearts are fed by beauty. Perverted fantasies are lifted up and chased.
Persevering the objects of their affection.
Often times the result is sarcastic sexy rejection.
Silk wrapped around stone.
Where hard and soft belong.
Where the dazzling and mundane fit.
Successful super superficial.
Secluding the poor and ugly.
A subtle hookers graceful appearance may inspire.
Just a few days wages, lies and some hired attire.

Motorway city

Exhaust fume stained bridges.
Palm trees line the roadside.
Low sun over the asphalt.
Heat rising between the painted lines we drive in.
The gray hard runs over the soft green.
Car behind car, our lives on hold.
Near and far accidents unfold.
Patience wears thin.
Highway windscreen glass shower.
Blood soaks the stone, fractures and broken bones.
Statistics shock and rock the drivers.
Barriers keeping us from the edge.
Fluroscent markers keep us from ruin.
Hard rock under our destination.
Winding paths make our tyres moan.
Transport flux surrounds.

Nukelofa

Liquid brown as an essence or as a boring waste.
Fingers fiddle the very cup.
Tables to wait.
Shouting impatient customers.
Arousal counter exchange.
Hybrid ingredients.
Nukelofa caffeine supply.
Spilled affection.
Wrists twisting turning, checking mid-moment of awkward motion.
Shyness rival.
Fruit bowls, dried stains, bells on the door ringing.
Wait on me waitresses.
Sell a cup of energy. Lasting warmth, breathing steam.
Lust lasts longer in the house of hot drink.
Makers of the boiling water essence.
Coffee reason, latte dreaming.
Cappacino freedom.
Warm your heart.

Mobile phantom

Ingrained traveller.
Embryo of misdirected light.
The obese ego, Indulging.
The mind a pipeline for strategies.
Sinister portico pillar legs.
Five servants on each hand.
Swindle and scratch.
Bewitched embodiment.
Sardonic tongue with which the phantom utters.

Living tomb

Body as a ghost house.
The attic is a frightening head.
Scary theory.
Boasting a secret door under the carpet.
Leading to closets, the skeletons stole the keys and locked themselves in.
Arms are on the third story, deck and patio. Clever on the fifth and the sixth.
Chimneys protrude. Perturbing escalators below.
Household devices.
Hips, foundation for walking. Looming terrorfying.
Building a shelter a howling hospice.
Lewd mammon container.

Even dirty roads

Down the hill faster than a flicker in the rearview.
Unknown passengers in the back. Round the curb as midday claps.
The decent streets all one way, became a labyrinth to me.

Big black signs and cul-de-sac verges. A distant highway laughing and surging.
So I left my vehicle and disappeared. Darkness came to me along the estuary river.
A young woman sold her body outside a shack, half drunk, half diseased jumping with fleas along the river at night. Yellow lamp light revealed the stains.
Her friends face half burnt, still smiled and told tales of her hometown, while my presense scared the clientele.
Those women sang to me in the mud and the shadows about the prison that is life.
Hard as I fought, shame was hard to kill. I have been the spinner at the wheel.
I have once stood a hand holding the throwing stone. I have been the deciever and his web, the lamenter and his cries. Would I pretend to be better? Judging and condemning others must too have it´s price.
The conman, dealer, whore, the lord of the flies!
The mud and the shadows and tributes to a life of lies.
Even dirty roads can be cleaned, can be paved again and lead back to redemption.

Couldn´t rob my soul?

Lucia Scaligeri 1637-1700

Lucia scaligeri 1637-1700

These paintings were not done by her, neither are they of her. 

Her hand was blessed as was her mouth. As was her youth, her incredible health. The essence in colour, her sights domination of her stroke and... Her tongue wrapping itself around europe, and like a serpent sensing it´s surroundings. Creating appeal that echoed through castle chambers and cobblestoned alleys. A mystery that few men would unravel. An unknown duchess bringing the world around her alive through art and language. A presense in words and in paint, a beauty that could humble the most conceited heart. Maybe love and tempered ambition prolonged her fair skin, her fine eye, her prowess...