Article 12

Keith Nunes


Thus spake the candelabra

Carrying the weight of gravitas
The diamond-faced man from Teotihuacan
Scatting the froot-loop word-game for his health
Sizing fixations with equal measure, melting-down & bubbling-up
Hanging off the plugged-in rail
Towelling off sparks,  
Cloving the mauving of his hunchbacked id 
With a cracked-egg moon and
Bacon rinding round his neck



Tracts to follow

So many cars in
So many driveways slotted in the
Furrows of tidy roadways of neatly roofed buildings
Like tracts from the bible laid out to follow

To fall in line with the line-dancing neighbours
To the beat of the Domino’s delivery door-knock and
The cicada-speak evening sprinklers and 
The loudmouth Saturday BBQs and
The muted, muffled domestics and
The embarrassed wave after the policeman leaves

The big-as-Texas rubbish bins with latitudinous lids and 
The token recycling and
And, and, and
All of that times square roots of all that

And so many people walking dogs and 
So many train-set scale figures to
Passively 
Ignore



What’s left after that

a cluster of streets on this ugly
enormous plain
named after mountains

+

a cat and her kittens
sprawled on the floor 
on the back of a dead tiger

+

faded plastic flamingos
a drained swimming pool
love don’t live here anymore



excerpt from Excerpts

‘Please keep your distance, madame,
Or I shall take my leave of this room,
No doubt
You are a strange woman
I am a strange man
And the times, they are always strange,
I have no idea what to do with all of that but
Touching one other will only exacerbate the strangeness of it all’



Icarus down and under

In Bruegel’s 16th century painting (if it was a Bruegel)
Icarus has hit the water
Entered the water
But his legs are still in the air 
The fly-boy has spent a long time
Holding his breath



A key in the lock

Something frightening 
                                            From the south

An odious 
                      Taste 
                                   In the mouth

Her lock
                Of hair in my hand

A key in the lock 
                                Of my door

Sand 
          In the air
                            Sand on the floor

Sat on the chair,
                                Something frightening 
                                                                            From the south



Keith W. Nunes (no fixed abode) has had poetry, fiction, haiku and visuals published around the 
globe. He creates insanely, in order to stay sane.
 
 

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