I
The first sip of a fine Rioja
Sumptuous nose, tantalising tongue
liquid art in my hand
Half a bottle now
Half way between the past
and the future
My hand has been resting on the glass
for an age
Bloody sore, the skin marked
The whole bottle now, a blonde beer
I’m carried along the conveyor belt
to the destination
The moon is watching
It is now upon me
A swollen camembert globe
oozing a smothering liquid blanket
enveloping my panic-face,
advising how I should go
II
At the front of the house
the Cordyline Palm
filters the street light to me
Again, the moon comes
A white-hot disc now
stihl-sawing the top of my skull
to create a lid
A skullcap canopy
shading the nonsense from the sun
while the orchestra plays, despite the heat
A hand painted wooden sign,
thrust into my shoulder,
inviting the lunatics
I arrive
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem