alexandre arnau Poems

strange ideas
take route
these vines
of the mind
...

under silky pink clouds
your hands traced
lines across my
earthen face
...

i die every day
just to die again
tomorrow
that's how it is
...

at the end of things
we might be privy to seeing
g*d calling his lightbearer home
shiva embracing
...

towards the dusty left
end of a basement city
the rain washes nothing
leaving sin in streaks on the street
...

it was sublime how from the expressway
the way the lights of the city shimmered
it was a secret kind of miracle
like a soft black ocean at night
...

it was the first day of orientation
i didn't want to go
not really
but i went
...

under the glassy moon
i ride
leaving photos
and cobwebs
...

talking my hands
in circles
too wrung out
to burn a straight line
...

i can hear them
the sweet fogginess
of slow muted trumpets
and alto saxophones
...