The Drowning Dog-Francisco Goya

                                                   "The Drowning Dog" by Francisco Goya

Painted directly onto one of the walls of his house "The Dog" is one of many dark paintings by Spanish Artist Francisco Goya.The art now sits in the Museo del Prado,Madrid.A link to the online gallery is here

Off chains
turning inside the sadness
of walls staring at each
other,across an alley
where the language mute ,
and the listeners too far
from a drowning dog,
and the sea that pets him to sleep

The mute history of catharsis

A catacomb like bar
Outside

     a man derived
   from many burdens,
applied to counting deficits
     in unfamiliar lives,
  marks men on their necks
   as They drop out
 bowing to the displeasure
    of light,
 the glowing bosoms
  of women of their histories
 the streak of dawn
    their inevitable rescues
 penultimate to their fall,their leaps
 honest confessions
        the nods of heaven
  the untitled, the unnamed
      all stones they bled upon
    

     a fissure between
 their memories,promising
       and waiting for them to fall back in,
      again

Cuckoo

The woods bundle under
my pillow as an orange sun
shafts from between
colossal branches that are now,undeniable
i sing my appraisal to the twig
upon who's arm the cuckoo rests,
not now,as i wait for him
and hear the forest repeat after me..

Bukowski's New Animals

i have grown tired of the stupid cat,
because i forget all about her
of the sheets of paper that keep flying off the desk
i don't even sit at any more,
The dog's chin touches mine
in a manner and at a time i can never remember
O how i wish there were bottles dry enough to drop your head in,
Without the throat and with my genitals hanging outside my underwear
all cold and too proud of their audacity
I howl to the sky every night,standing on a hill of dirt
it took me years to accumulate
The dog waits for fingers to be pointed up
His lazy ass not worth kicking at unlike mine,i think
i wonder if they agree with me on anything
except barking at the people in the streets below
and being subtle when you can't be smart..Aaahh screw that...and screw you!!

Wheatfield imaginations

The little capsules shine
as deafness or the like looms.
Through the ochroid heads
that sway gently from one silent moment
to the whisper of another approaching
i can see the night sky drool over me
as fetuses crawl across the sky,
I see naked bodies of lovers entangled
and their violent convulsions leaving a stir,
My shoulders fall in embarrassment
and between my legs even the shadows stain
as an ocean floored by glowing pebbles
bears down on me,like an abortion of the day gone by
i fling them pebbles across the fields
and watch them drop over the bend,
where my last breath takes its fall
and where the disheartened gather tonight..

To the point of absence

The evening recites to me
its essentiality,everday
it breaks my mood to remember things
that made impunity our only culture
I fear waking to the same purpose,
the unkown to emerge and seem familiar
In a misty corner of the street
my heart is slurred by the expression i carry
I see people with torches flashing through their pants
and their sleeves buttoned to their necks
i see people with the moon around their neck
and a whole lot of the sky to run around with it
Their is little honour,there is little honour i say
The lights outside a brothel
count down their own days to doom
as they fail to look away yet not wanting to
In a way every man circles himself to a point
of absence,death