1445 7 5
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I was Orson Welles skulking in the shadows and you Alida Valli;
our time measured like footsteps advancing on Gethsemane.
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The wind has no voice
and yet we listen,
perhaps imagining the ramblings
of a mad man
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I'm not sure if this is breaking the rules of Fictionaut, but here's a trailer of a poetry tour of Europe I did earlier this year. We hope to break it down into webisodes soon enough to highlight the brilliant readings, brilliant local poets and such that you can find not…
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19501912
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Say the word and I shall become
a photograph;
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ghosts keeping watch to ensure no changes;
their favoured tables safeguarded
with a Reserviert card
to ward off the living.
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Cafés just aren´t cool anymore
unless they boast walls of exposed brick, pipes,
half a chair nailed to the ceiling,
mis-matched furniture back-breakingly uncomfortable.
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