all saints start here

to be holy is beautifully impossible

this is definitely not me

wild boar jumping through the woods

for you brother J. W. for you J. and W.

the sky is here compact like a metal pig-house

under which we grunt for precision,

but you, my friend, are free.

and don’t worry about time – time is the only thing we have;

stop finding it, just write, love and, yes,

make something beautiful

like the sound of this wild boar

caught jumping through the woods. 

ready inclined

already halved. inclined

to light. soiled in beauty.

what are we but a bag of bones and love?

some of the most beautiful things wouldn't exist without suffering.

this is the proper mystery of the world.

Romanian village in winter

a visit to my sister's grave

she should have been 23 today, 06.12.2014.

pre-innocence

before we know it, here we are.

and then allow enough prodigality,

incessant solitude through which we

know to arrest the vitality of sorrow.

I am sorry, I did not know that a sun could slide to kill

right down my side of virtual frenzy.

I thought I was standing of flesh and good were the legs

to receive the attention of other legs

and up we were finding each other’s ending.

I was wrong.

on the road from Newcastle to Nottingham

I have succeeded (not to succeed?)