Mouth Flower Rock

"Style is a function of theme
Style is not imposed on subject matter
But arises from it
Style is truth to thought."


Aoife shouts words but Kathleen rules
her world, and the brown leather robe

draped across the chair
tucked beneath the table

contained within this locked box
is mine

June cries
coming through the door of the
occupational therapy room where

Aoife sits listening to angelus
bells peel havoc at the hill top.


Hear angelus energy share
consciousness with them and have the

sense to look for meaning where none
dare peek for fear of being

labelled mentally unkempt, as June
was before she died a derelict in a
loony bin

opined to be beyond all reach by the
boss head doctor of a city's top

psychiatric hospital where she lived
in nineteen ninety nine when professor

Aoife O'Brien gave injections from ten
to eleven

depending on
depending on...

If there is a cow in the field and
a machine out of order.


June is on-ward and in role play
draped upon the chair and chuckling
freely at the table.

The machine is out of order.

June continues

Within this warm room Mick is nowt
but four letters of evidence
of an afternoon's reading

Does June now flit with the big
fella's shade

       in books

deconstruct schoolchildren
from shadows in caves

and tower over oath bound men
to find a simple mountain grace


at life's end?


when Yeats ruled a world of words
his imagination rolled fairly from

her tongue pouring forth to write
prayer, fable and a nation's tomb.


Me me me me me more than he it was
back when June gobbed off

and got on with the business of
being la la. Nuttying it up for

medication and a cosmic life
of ticking boxes and flapping

wings across forms Aoife's boss
Kathleen the chief executive read

before triggering the only option
on offer for sister June.


A barmy woman whose one tribal self
become air worthy ether.

June knew Aoife's way was a leather
restraint belt, and the moniker they


for her daily jacket.

will be where the morning lit
mountain's phantasmagoria and shades

leisure long with the ghost of a man
who shot the one who took draughts
of demands to London.


Demons came and taunted her in the
telly room until her mind vaporisd

and she disappeared during the angelus
bell, silently faded and went instantly.

Will Kathleen tell?


She never spoke
once the initial disolution instantly

dissolved any questions lingering in her
bonce, just got stuck in a box after

her long dance with his reflection at the
grave where a well of time returns wild
spring flowers.


An answer blown on ageless dumb
stone and these eyes fell upon you

Kathleen, who knew what went on when
my heart beat alive and I breathed

being driven through the breeze to an
ambush that night

when the windows got shot through
and bullets blew open my skull.


In the immediate aftermath his
ghost appeared, quivered on a track

leading back through a bog to the past
of that night until

the phantom glow suddenly paled and
withdrew as its light flickered out at the
foot of mouth flower rock. Mick’s shade.


Nude at Dawn

Your's is the first redness of the sun,
And of the sun's liquidness is made
The naked gleam of your skin.
There is no coolness, no shade in you
And you are not a haven for my wanderings,
Being of congealed fire! Your's is the gift
Of ceaseless, comfortless wanting
And in the spasms of my desire for you at dawn
The world's longing finds its voice.

© Arka Mukhopadhyay, 2006



Examine the tree-
a man stands
tall yet bending,

always bending
towards sky
to ground,

all his leaves
like children

in such wind,
such wind whose
hands pull down

and ripping,
dancing, skipping
over hills... escape.

Look at stars-
a woman drinking
light, becoming

near morning,
bird (whose eyes)

to poppies

whose tongue
eats slowly

a shell
built around
its pearl.

See the night-
dark, young
and knowing,

the wings
of moth,




Afternoon sinking in langour
Outside, the world turns in a dream
Here, the softness of thighs
Here, the heaviness of breath
The swiftness of desire.
Outside, lives rotting in the sun
Here, the inexorable burrowing
Of lands unknown and older
Than the roots of memory,
Clad in a perpetual twilight
Here the hunger of arms,
The reptillian smoothness of tongues.
Outside, the vast emptiness of the night,
And here, for us under the stars,
What redemption?

© Arka Mukhopadhyay, 2006



The river ran as
it always has; we paddle,
make our way downstream.



wave to

there turning there

"pairs and
differs" where here


the (context

bigger) shit shining

"these choices"
arrested paragraph periodical


hat finger names

face 7th

& Fig buttocks

sentences stands

undressed "differs it

placed" waving

turning there waving


haste makes hominy divine

this cured river spares the leaks we're due
all this because of you
romance struts golden where the limbic pose
still restful near this fusebox

all this because of you
the point of view deemed cautious Brailles its way
stays restful near this fusebox
where a matted free zone tastes like soft clocks

the point of view deemed cautious Brailles its way
into continuance we seek to tamp
where a matted free zone tastes like soft clocks
piracy made hubris as the fella overstates in jest

venturing into continuance we seek to tamp
the velvety young overtones from cheesing
piracy made hubris as the fella overstates in jest
come home to papa says the french fry

velvety young overtones left cheesing
offer adages if you happen within hearing
come home to papa says the french fry
you are always welcome to be center stature

adages are given if you happen within hearing
spoils of war approach the rafters
you are always welcome to be center stature
quasi luminaries binge sink into western hemispherics

spoils of war approach the rafters
is it restful near the fusebox
quasi lumaries bing sink into western hemispherics
this cured river spares the leaks we're due




light as a beacon:
shine on, dearest love,
shine on. resplendent,
in the rotunda, signal


Agnostic Interruptus

The weight of,
pressing on
an artery-


There is no
proof of,
as it slips


is not
what was


death by
knowing of


oblivion: time against memory

"forbice, non recidere quel volto..."
secateur, don't cut off that face...
(E. Montale, from Le Occasioni)


What We Become

Fast famed,
ribboned down

the part of fire that
cracks like particles

of dust;

wheat husks
(useless as they seem)

retain the shape of
what they held-

(in jailed light)

to mottled green.

Window Dressing

landscape revels, earth warmed emerald greens.


Lessons Of (An Eye)

Here, sylph-like
syllables of being-

silver stained,

and mist
too bright

for eyes
to fasten; this

blinding sight
which passes

over rims
of sky-

brilliant white-ness

if you think

if you think
that you

me small
good goddamned luck!



In dense rain, black
flies sleep hidden;

the poverty

of wisdom
in evasion.

If you can't plague
anyone- who

will you convince ?


The stamp of your feet,
in shoes two times too big
wiped dirt across the bedroom floor
when they came to rest                   upon the headboard
and stayed.                         The toes, wriggling
for more room, always.
You were always
larger than life to me, tall, narrow face
and you
slept alone.

You wanted to grow
into those shoes,                                                never content
with the soft slippers bought that winter in 84
          before you passed,
but the bourbon had eaten
its way inside. A man withered by years
of consumption                                     with pills, housekeepers,
the ghost of my mother
malcontent. The echoes of rooms built
to house empty furniture, the hollows of your cheek
haunt me still.

I tried those shoes on and they never fit me either, though I wear them sometimes, when I think of your struggle, when I think of you dad. Life was bigger than you, to me you were bigger than life. The American dream of the fifties. If they were mine, if I could wear them, I would.


noche (night) ( Petronius,sat 41)

dies nihil est

dum versas te,

nox fit

the day is the slightest thing

just one little move

and the night has fallen



spiral head windows cardboard bared microchips maybe next time
spoons rattling hung from a string in the cavity turn on and off like wind chimes
where the heart should stand be stood up by some headlight falling soberly
into buzzing arms of a wasp STAND UP just straight enough to walk
a straight line laughing into flames like a motherfucker flickering flames
tasting the waltz of daemon tongue flower blood as the shovel hits my brain
kissing a bottle stumbling toward circumstances and comas where does the drip
drip go iv corked into my center let's play hide and go seek ampersand that
i think i thought i think i did i was i was where i was in there and that was
what that was smack in smack in let's paycheck spend spent gone
too far gone to even disagree with strange sex and phone bills
intravenously stunned by a stray cloud mud on my boots
don't know which soil soiled splattered doesn't matter

The Pianist (for Marie)

and now the piano keys,
sharp teeth, black legged

(I am sure music travels)

stare in a foyer towards
a kitchen where

my grandmother died
there, beside the oven

(was she humming as
she inhaled?)

No judgements
in an obituary
that read:

send flowers
in lieu of money.

She never tolerated
flowers, their silenced,

their funeral-ed perfect
beauty, their lack of hair.

Roses are incapable
of singing, nor
jasmine compose

high notes
in troubled times.

And magnolias
never breath

or play piano
like Marie

she divined.


hard write poems (((shaking)))

the bed conveyed it's wisdom to me the pillow whispered tiny secrets
ran like hell outdoors half-naked

fragile legs shaking all over the place still shaking
can't stop shaking

to go
had to go

sure am in better place

sure shaking

met with others

war paint on
smoke and mirrors and coffee

far down

fearful fits

x said
a friend of mine gave me a choice

what'll it be champ
a bottle or a revolver

ever heard
of russian roulette?

sometimes you don't want to go
where everybody knows your name

hands shaking miserable
hard write poems

sometimes lose control
lost control

where am i


Decorum Wafts

She heard 'generous' while he painted the layer wedged beneath a surface aching with its depth. As though he were inventing her. His hands upon a place not yet invented. Her expression where smile wrinkles would be. A stucco tree in an imaginary yard, with just the right resistance level planted in the ground. 'Somebody live here,' she implored. 'There's not enough of me.' He gradually rose to invitations that he heard repeated when they spoke their separate languages all the in the name of center fraction. Once when he appeared a boy, a woman wrote in penmanship entire new syllabi. His line drawings of her began to serve as her replacement. As he grew, pale diary entries held an overcast arrangement. When she wept, he also cried. The question of identity was shared, and when dusk began to lose clarity, opaque new dove lines crossed the sense of limits into sweet night. He was feathering a wilderness, and she could be again the child.

Nerve endings, fathomed crests fallen to numbers



Through the Golden Bough, you enter
wide opened mouth of the earth
to the sub- sky,
to the only end of darkness
under a dull light
of black suns­

you touch oceans of shadows,
beaches of lost fallen leaves,
the Angelus Novus: he lets not
look backwards the crossing people

overtaking the Father,
enlightened by lights of future lives,
you arrive just to the ivory door of wrong dreams.
An interior, hidden mind spreads around the worlds

if eyes opened even for a flash,
they could see how things are:
rain's slow drops on a window pane.


adhsuaidhsaudsa toskãaaaaaaaaaaaao!
hehehe : ae heim!!!
;o******* Legal!!
Ótimo dia aew!
finta, hahahaha.
valeu joooooonior!!!
muito massaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa me da fomeeeeeeeee!
Hummm que luxo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
bjãooooooooooooooooooooo saudades.....
fica na paz!
MEU DEUS!!!!!!!!!!
É VC??????????
facia tanto tempo que eu não entrou aqui estou felizzzzzzzz de verte assim....
vc esta lindaaaaaa...
vc esta lindaaaaaa...
vc esta bem como se ve??
te adoramos...
* * .
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* --------0000---------------------- ------0000------------------------ ----00000------------------------- ---00000-------------------- --000000--------------------- -0000000-------------------------- -0000000--------------------- -0000--00------------------- -0000--00000000---------------- -000000000000---------------- --0000000000--------------------0- ---0000-000000-----------------00- ----00000-------0------------000-- ------000000--00000------000000--- --------000000000000000000000----- ----------00000000000000000------- --------------000000000----------- + .
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* M A R A suaaa!!!
adhsuaidhsaudsa toskãaaaaaaaaaaaao!
hehehe : ae heim!!!
;o******* Legal!!
Ótimo dia aew!
finta, hahahaha.
valeu joooooonior!!!
muito massaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa me ...



You arise,
low morning light,
frail-webbed winged,

thin boned-

the night
behind you,
dark halo-ed


a body
and its only gift-
mortal ash-brown


This eye
fills the room,
a million emptied


long world,
every hour
glowing infinite



naugahyde, the fabric equivalent of formica, deflects most perspiration
made from the skins of naugas,
naugahyde bestows on 100% pure vinyl an alternative smooth surface,
a vinyl impregnated fabric of one papal bull
naugahyde dies for expanded (re)cognition of oak trim
naugahyde glows into now bronze dyed and the woodgraining on the doors, covered with silver rolled and pleated naugahyde
naugahyde occupies mildew-resistant circles
naugahyde promises to provide excellent durability and long life through normal use of box stitch and dancing
naugahyde breeds vinyl, immerses eyesight in a spate of running water
naugahyde in some communities approximates bold faith
due to the decimation of the nauga herds in recent years, naugahyde falls into never-a-good-idea
naugahyde is not recommended for prolonged contact with bare skin
naugahyde subjected to a stretch of fears by the very versatile indulges us once and for all
naugahyde should be a skirt that spawns marchers with wide signs


newly released collaborative title - Doug Barbour/Sheila E. Murphy

Douglas Barbour, Sheila E. Murphy

“The strength of this book is in its quick-change artistry, the sensation of flux that is continuous, and capable at any moment of erupting into epiphany or surprise.” Roo Borson Across great distances and a panorama shaped by words, poets Douglas Barbour and Sheila Murphy began writing in collaboration. Tapped to technology’s dance across paper, with thoughts like bright colours coursing across screens, Continuations emerged as the product of a new creator, a “third individual,” who writes differently from either poet. Words shapeshifted and poets transformed, Continuations is an intriguing addition to the growing field of collaborative poetry in North American literature.

ISBN: 0-88864-463-9
Price: CND$ 19.95, USD$ 19.95, £ 10.99
Discount: Trade
Subject: Literature/Poetry
Publication Date: March 2006



heaving that
(one client) part

vomiting inside
release flu'd kitchen
bowel movements

anal from "detached
foot/fingers the

impression seems to

what" (alternative)
stage slips times

3 behind
foot up break

deludes "certain,
ah" 'connects transcend
"truth proper,

it makes that"
subject makes
inarticulate objects immediate

"with problems"
inclines that (self)

two counterbalance
dissolution hallway in


Zen and the Art of Expiation

And so that is where matters rest now-
After thirty odd years, two millennia, a kiss
And oh!, the tree, a lonely tree that paved
The road to Satan's gnawing jaws, and now this!
That the righteous of the ages who raged and raved
Curses upon you, had got it wrong somehow!

Perhaps, if you could find time from being chewed,
As you apparently are being, and ponder
That for thirty you died a miserable wretch;
You'd probably be baffled and wonder
That your brittle pages can now fetch
Three million, even though corroded and mildewed.

And perhaps, too, you'd look at the stars above,
And your's the foremost of them! Would you shed
A lonely tear that others were absolved
For doing they knew not what, and yet you alone have bled
All these ages? Or perhaps you knew, and in your mind were resolved
To plant the kiss that was not the child of sin, but Love?

© Arka Mukhopadhyay, 2006

Thank you, JJ, for the inspiration, though this is nowhere near as good as your's


That Black Dress

That black dress
made your breasts
penitent magnolias

(mouths praying)

and your hips curved
wide, the sea where
dolphins are born,

the zipper against
your back- an ingress
to secret roads

(few men have known)

the waist, tight as
throat when the eye
sees far-too fragile things

(imagine a hand cupped
around a small bird)

the skirt, the sky
within which lies
burning clouds at sunset

(God's fiery face)

when you take it off-
moon's gold flesh against
the dark cloth of night.



No one knew I
had advised you
that stealing

bread was forgiveable-

we are designed
to feed on stars
not to conceal them.

And what you offer
to the hungry night-

your crumb-filled hands,
your lasting faith,
your monumental thirsting

bears witness to
your only crime-



silence unfolds its wings before me & now gazing into her navel exposed
i've found myself entering that sweet decimal point that forbidden asterisk
strolling through that twilight tunnel wandering about in circles this illusion
is revealed as it truly is silence begins again & again repetitiously echoes
renewed by this distraction at the same time dealt a dirty fatal blow in large
shocking avant-font she seems ne'er care to have left me stranded to have
left me gone reaching desperately for the plateau of her stiletto heels her fine
artsy petals how incubation spirals me i am smothered by her red corset
her black stockings brokenhearted & hammered in tube station bumming
a smoke from some wild-eyed stranger this warmth of occupation
this hand-me-down the chill of commuters rushing faces disappearing
within the wormholes of bloodshot eyes all faces wearily looking home-
ward even if it be made of cardboard & discarded bits of aluminum foil
or in the whale guts of an abandoned swimming pool directionless
hardly did i know this to be my final final destination doors closing
doors closing doors closing doors closing please step away
from the doors



Dear Heart,
the dance of emotion
Stimmung offa the
back of your eyes

imprisoned by skies

lies have eyes they
perpetuate the drift [sexua]

Imprison me by your stare
words not thoughtfully kept
without regret
ca cigarettes and coffee
in nights apparent yarn.

of lines called sexism
youth associative disorder
inclement weather
a flower extrinsicette

no words [text]
will put to mind
the shit that is
love caught blind

to starving minds
by bureaucracies measurement
the living to the artistic
novels of decorative
ne'er saying something [fragmentation]

traces of glass by Birminghams
crass [antagonist]
the worded drama enveloping
cort by committee housing
love lies beyond evacuative fear

prompted carpet clash
and vacuum cleaner

I settle my scores by
love, my dear
gone but not forgotten
I need you so and snow

[art and life you should leave it there by heck musee recherche]

[abstraction beyond insignifi


Caring eyes think they can see and do anything. They are right.


Some treasures grow only when shared- especially memories.

[dear members,
my blog ::fait accompli:: is (hopefully) temporarily
disabled. I have been wrtting a series of maxims
called Contradicta and thought I might
post them here for awhile]

A star in each eye like a headlight

Here we are again knotted, drunk
teenagers, you're breathing into
my neck and the driver's sizzling through
the night in the back seat I'm hearing
something about 'geography' but

God only know what you're saying
I'm viscously drunk, we threw them
down, you bringing glasses and glasses
to my wide jackal face and lips
pushing red into your, what is your

Spreading tattoos over my arms, onto
my winterdry hands my face is flakes
and keratin, the raw and the cooked.
The walls are thin in this house so
I woke liquid with shame, what is your


Black and Grey

Red, the color of roses
beneath faded blue, the color
of a german boy's eyes

around the white organs
of a novel I wrote when
I had nothing to say;

a dirty street sign with
the word "run" spray painted
by some ruffian over a command


is my confusion common?
and we run as if we could
ever catch "ourselves"

in colors or words or
symbols. It is no mistake,
we are moving through even as

the book is closed, even as
our best stories dissolve
into black and grey.

A Cloud of Suns

when they are revealed
shallow earth recoils
sanity sustained
in the bowels of rejection
summoned the will
on the cusp of death
enlightenment the unflinching
bestows the righteous rewards

Billy Jno Hope


Tale of the night

Bitter tears when they shot the refugees from Berlin
Back then we still had compassion and burning hearts

Now eleven burned to dead.
Our jars of compassion dried up.
Our hearts are cold.
No tears I see.
But we elected this administration.

what's going on here? (Virgil's babble)

the sun shines over again, Qoelet said
can the light be off?
and Parcae: the age was asked a change...
everybody, everything, you, I,
all that exists
hope a little longer

cor sage

sacrament of thanks this day
to both who have been lifted
whom I loved carefully
in each given moment

one is careful with angels
reputed to be difficult
one brushes wings in hope
of the osmotic capture

and if this is ever so
then it is ever so
the surface of the skin
and footfall

my sense of hearing
captures all the sense
in one flicker of sight
encompassing mistakes all mine

sparing many selves of my mistakes
attracting new competitors
who will inspire me then
each day will be a better day

only in part alone from
those who left without
announcement as does everyone
focused and hurrying

what happens is the sharing
of intention as the body
tackles past minus pure
recollection of the reasons



Imagine a beer spokes-model
with an attraction-to-disaster IQ of 180
has a really dedicated energy he expends
on inventing a purpose for being
his very own fiefdom leader, multi tasking
as the gang master of a glamorous staff of
peace-nicks manning the decks at
suicide hotline in central Bagdad.

Say he works out the answer to
middle East peace on the back of a

is a sado-alcoholic who keeps a naggin
of whiskey hidden in the toilet cylinder
of the bunker where the red button rests

and his radiantly soft, supple and youthful
looking skin, glows perfectly flawless at
the stroke of a powder brush, beautifully
crafted to blend and match those top
flaws with a sheer cover of corrective
cosmetic camouflage.

instead of being careful, he's care free
with an effortlessly simple economic fitness
regime, to keep family and national finances
balanced behind the complexion of democracy

moisturized with tinted concealer, remotely
applied when directing insurgency busting
exercises on the Irish highway into green zone

like a play station gamer cleaning up with
actively soft soaping outlooks that suck up
grease by sleight of hand, in an easy,
no nonsense neo-con swindle no one believes
in but him

Halliburton shareholders, soldiers of fortune
corporate stock holders, private security
companies who profit from war, and those who
like their god angry, righteous, out to
remove the menacing threat of terror that
can make kids watching Mickey Mouse Club
switch off through fear,

stop rich kids on the road to decadence from
getting personal valets for thirteenth
birthdays because their parents are too scared
of who the help might be

and quiet the question demanding an answer for
the thousands who die over discredited
documents, dismissed and forgotten by
politicians who got it wrong from the word go

and who
three years later with no end in sight
and a world losing all faith in their words
still insist they did things because
- just like John Edgar Hoover and Joe Ray
McCarthy -
they love America.



Rinsed behind pearl dove cloud to a red disc

the lit end of a cigarette sunset
sinks on a brooding Irish sea
extinguishing the day

like death returning flesh
to the womb of light
when our breathing note
no longer plays
in life's rare song
but disperses back
through air
to fill the sky
in silence

Ignorance, interrupted

The intensity of small minds gathered
at the crossroads of the unknown
is matched only by
their ignorance,

the fundamentalists rant;
the cosmos holds the answer-
evolution or creation?
Physicists only dream,
science always changes.

Mayo River Blues


The Swallows Have Eaten

the sand stuck to the bottle's sugars

from the outside the use was that

the use to hold onto the wandering public

far from their words

what brought them out or alone opposite the door

the pattern of broken rains moved east

the manner of words

shaken from the bed or put to bed

long after the positions become inches of water

the posture of immaculate coherence

gone as if nothing happened to the thirst

the once again trace to recover

the way it didn't move but became lost

planted in new space like that

sometimes pretty hunting musics morning moan awake
headache gray unfurl shall karaoke Me there he's looking
knows what's in underwear in assorted dreams drunkenly
dance more something dorothy groping email of the body
ceremonial clunky individual tangled in ripped bedroom
taste blood halos on trembling lips as dirt moderator
try moaning your hope junky wetly solid gold sang
particular thought rub i whatever like buffet of interlocking orbs
impressionable doc martens walk age-defying on electric ground
uber bookmark this soul i've got you in my rearview mirage

galaxy lights pumping
bodies pulsating in motion
over the dance floor
intercellular movement

improvised venusian
ceremonial dances
to meet coming rain
young persons flooded

looking out through the blackness
as boys on boys and women on women
and sometimes boys on women
tangle into saying anything at all

elsewhere there is a tender groping
in the stalls electric blue eyes shatter
into groups of ten is that make-up
let us determine