Nowhere In Sight

It started as a rogue heartbeat, a misaligned piece of machinery slightly out of joint, promptly ignored by those around it or probably mistaken for something else entirely. As the sound finally stopped, the face became fixed in an ambiguous grimace, a moment of doubt or perhaps joy that soon became the subject of many scholarly debates and refined shows.

(Although this is universally acknowledged as the time of its death, the moment of the demise came much later.)

The philosophical implications of its passing were soon forgotten, relegated to a dusty corner of an increasingly self-absorbed academia, and that ambivalent grin became another hollow icon to be worn on shirts and write songs about. Little by little, any remainder of coherent meaning or transcendent truth was carefully carved out of that final moment. Technocrats and spinners of truths unraveled every pore of that countenance with calculated business acumen in an attempt to extend its productivity way beyond its expiration date. Politicians kept parroting half-baked metaphors about it, never fully understanding what they were doing and never intending to. National holidays were announced, masks were crafted, posters were painted, until that multifarious visage covered almost the entire country, plastered to every window and wall. It wasn’t long until TV shows were produced and swift nutrient franchises (by that time the word “fast” had also outlived its usefulness) acknowledged its selling potential and started to name and shape their products after it.

(Some optimists point at this event as the time of demise. The truth is another matter completely.)

Meanwhile, the hands that had once known the texture of its skin are long buried, lost beneath the unmarked grave of collective history, together with the memories that had given it life and all the contexts that had seen it rise to its almost deific status.

As per the face itself, it remains attached to the body it once belonged to, buried also beneath heaps of trash and neat bundles of inconsequential prayers. The once awe-inspiring contours, now little more than a bleached portrait of mortal frailty, keep breaking down into its irreductible components – time, dust, and          – no longer bearing any resemblance to the effigies carved in its image and likeness.

(As of today, the time of demise remains nowhere in sight.)

Ten Sights Of Glanfath


The beast jumps at your throat with gnarled teeth and ferocious expression. Years later, a memory strikes you as moonlight licks your blood-soaked hands and you realize the unbearable depth of its love. Knowing that you would kill it again, you curl up and cry.


Faces on trees look at you from distant times. The forest goes silent and you find your face among them. Somewhere very close, mites keep gnawing at your brain, a chip at a time. Sap runs down your cheeks as someone else walks away.


The husk of a woman stares at the moon, gaping at a memory she used to remember. But the weight in her chest is too much and the thing sucking from her dry breasts makes too much noise. She holds the baby with a hand made of bone and skin and plunges a rusty dager into its heart.

Silence eases a minuscule mind.


A fire has found a way into the forest. It has heard of the souls trapped there and wants to save them. Trees grow legs and jump into it by the hundreds. As it dies, the fire ponders.

A smile in the ashes.


Something stirs at the core. It dreams, but it knows no sleep.


In the morning, the crows welcome the taste of untainted flesh. Eyes blink for the last time before opening again.


A swarm of three-eyed mice scurry through the undergrowth. They have been everywhere, even in your thoughts. They were born with the forest and have been fleeing ever since. Today, one thousand and twenty-four years later, they finally reach its core.


Injured beyond understanding, the river tries to remember a time before the thing that fell from the sky. It tries to rise one last time, but its bed is long gone, as well as the rest.


The pitiful thing gurgles as it dies forever.


All the fear, all the fury, lives still within jet-black eyes. Arms like twisted branches caress your heart and leave a trail of splinters. Now, only one remains.

But one is more than enough.


Welcome home.



Feeding on Echoes

Again I wear the bones
that in killing Time we found:
first we stole Its thrones,
then we broke Its crown.

(These are not my bones.)

Among leaves of anger
Its blood flowed like dust
as we clang in ecstatic languor
to our impotent lust.

(This is not my blood.)

At some point we fell asleep,
between cracks of ruptured space,
hanging like strips of desiccated skin
tied to mouthfuls of yawning Abyss.

(This is not my skin.)

Eye-lid blankets
Pillowed teeth
Bed skirt lips
Tongue-like sheets

Who will wake us up
when we no longer dream?
Who will wake us up
when we start to scream?

We killed Time.

(And now we’re feeding on echoes.)


I have this idea you know that there is a clock for everything we do, there is a clock for walking, for eating, for blinking a clock for everything do you follow? Yes? Well then these clocks are always ticking, always ticking, always ticking and when the time in a clock runs out the clock breaks the hour hand trips on the minute hand and both fall down and there is no way you can fix it do you follow? Yes? So when the clock breaks it no longer ticks and it can’t count the time so that thing you used to do simply stops happenning.


There is :

a clock for kissing

a clock for breathing

a clock for missing

and a clock for waiting

There is:

a clock for crying

a clock for dreaming

a clock for feeling

and a clock for wishing

There is also a clock for sex

a clock for touch

a clock for her

and also a clock

for everyone else


Of all of them the clock of life ticks faster,

the clock of death well it knows no master.


But don’t worry my friend

since nothing’s really at a stake:

in all the clocks it is already too late.

The Spider

The legs of a spider travel

the distance of your sleeve

as moments tangle

and meanings ravel

on the edge

of your exposed teeth.


“What is this thing I feel on my back?”

You ask, still half asleep

as the grass hums

and rumors creep.

“It is the time that walks

and weights

and heaves

through widening cracks

of bare skin.”


The legs of the spider leave

no trace with which to tell

that six eyes did once observe

two narrow shadows

on the brink of becoming

two empty shells.


(which the sun later found

and erased)

In Dreams

My breath then stops in an amber-encased gasp. Gravity stops functioning and all the stars in her eyes lock into a perfect pattern more beautiful than anything the universe could ever conceive. My hand in her hand feels her tightening grasp as the last spasms shake my body and my thoughts. For an instant, her hand in my hand are the only forces in existence and between our closed palms we hold the secret truth that lies beyond every soul.

When time awakes we let it go and it runs away without looking back, because it knows that we could catch it if we wanted to.

But we won’t. We don’t need to. We already have each other.

Time bends to our will and we give birth to the stars.