Faro Punter

Apples and oranges, perhaps: nevertheless a day in the life, then, at the very least a composite of days; impressionistic, but illustrative. Henri Beyle, the late-blooming writer known as Stendhal, writes in Memoirs of an Egotist of one particularly boring St. John’s Day — 24 June, 1832, which begins shortly …

Beautiful Lamentation

Passing abandoned Buildings trafficking in ghosts When few understood me Nor I myself. Stumbling in To unravel mysteries There were no signs, no Ciphers I could utter But murmur some rough acceptance. Each shallow breath Preludes rattle & ruin Ribcage prison – Tines forged & secret – Twisting with rapturous …

You, Part I

This is the story I will tell at my funeral: there are two of me; I-now, I-then. One is unreliable. By the time you read these words the I-then that wrote them will be gone and largely forgotten will be what it was, though a trace lingers, a hovering ghost …

MMmachine

It’s 1979, maybe early 80, and we are all family, off the wall, our chests beating with hearts of brilliant glass, and there’s this kid in town, iconoclastic before we knew the word, our very own Maimonides, wore ties to high school, rode the coolest bike up and down these …

Gospel of Truth, I

When the doctor cut into me, peeled away the skin, the fat, the organs, the vessels of blood; when he cracked and shed the cartilage of my spine, music oozed from me. The music of oblivion. “…and the Father is within…they are in the Father.” [i] Truth conforms to music …

Twelve

Mum is said to have kept a photo album, a top secret album of photographs she had taken of my father passed out or crawling on the floor after a night of drinking. I never saw this album, its location such a mystery, but even the idea of it makes …