Tuesday, November 30th, 2010


Life In Frames /Pixeled Dreams
Justin Fenech

(Sensual)(Org - )

The bed sweats
On your eye-lids
Nothing exists
nd you can't wait
To find existence
as your eye-lashes
Pause for breath
Like stuffed bats.

Wishing the weightless waves
Return you to the right-hand side
Of sleep.

Nothing. It isn't fair.
The sheets are cobwebs.
Licence, licence,
The only poetic licence
Is for more dreams.

You can't even remember
The vast scene
Merde Mierda Merda.

You turn your eyes
Away from their drunken siesta
And you see, like a patron,
That other poetry
Framed atop your wall.

Its space on the wall
Is that of
Michelangelo's David
In orbit.

Its not true that the dream is over
The four corners within the frame
An arena of colours
Breaths of the river you loved
And the songs you hummed
With a liberty never before known
In ivory fields of sunlight.

What of the girl you saw
Across the bridge - that childhood crush
That engulfed you in adolosence?

Francesca, Giovanna,
Mari, Mari,
Filipa, Pipa,
O the names 
You gave her!

To picture her is to picture dreams.

You walk downstairs
Still half asleep with the rivers
Within the frame within your veins
A cup of coffee? Ma certo.

Sit on any chair you like
Either will be infinite
As the bronze kisses in the golden fields
That could have been
Now come to life
In the cup you bring to your lips.





Photograph's Radiation
Justin Fenech

"I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs 
that he may get used to the death he carries."

(Federico Garcia Lorca - Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias)

Now that I've walked past the photo
  I have been knighted.
New trees take root in my sides - friends,
And here's what leaves blossom from their myths:

Flair lighting up the square in gestures,
The clothes of youth atop Parnassus, 
  Ralph Lauren silence,
  Pride of the ole;
I go for lunch, creamy and somehow Italian,
Permanently dazed
By the crowd's faith in my splendour
  Ready to feast
  Upon my fresh conquest.

I love what I don't see
In love's name
  (Moorish tiles).

The afternoon sunlight is a postman
That delivers the Archangel's erection
From the spine right past the ribs

I promise the bright breeze
That intersects the dry heat
To learn all I can about 
My new heritage
And to live it out with grace



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