November
Myth of unsolved mystery
Colour of smoke and shadow
What have you done
November
with October? last September?
Not even cold December
could resist your profound shudder—
your dark obsessions musty scent
distant rolls of thunder
Silent film on tiptoe—
Chaplin Bergman Pasolini—
heavy trains of thought
limping through me now
Deep in my throat’s forest
your oboe’s haunting timbre--
twisting tones of burnt sienna
living embers turned to ash
November
dismembered
hands pointing to
The Eleventh Hour
ever on the edge of slumber
your days of dead
were never numbered
Twilight
His love of open space
left blanks between his words
gaps between his teeth
silences within
All intervals in time--
the measure of height and width
the depth in which all things exist
and move moved in him--
a boundless three dimensional
journeying between the planets and the stars
the flat surfaces of his mind
How he distanced himself
from things and people
invading his terrain--
floor space parking space
objects and events which occurred
in the space which occupied him--the Absolute Space--
was beyond even him
Often he would go to great lengths
extending himself
the rings around his eyes--
sunken in their dark orbits
spinning
in some alternate Universe
Space
is relative to position and direction
he said
but only in the physical realm
The celestial beauty of inner space
is infinite
There is no separation between
sunrise and sunset
shadow and light
the dead and the living
Life belongs to both worlds
and to neither--
rests in the breath
inhabits the mystery
of here and oh so there
He said he said
taking one last drag
on his burnt-out cigarette
before he shut the door
behind him
Blew his brains out
in the hallway he did
Now, go to Hell !
he said
insomnia
that long grey yawn
that stretches you
beyond the pale
of your imagination
beyond the remote
of late-nite date nite
white noise Pink Floyd
God
I wish you were here
here
the cold breath of absent lovers
in bus terminals
in hospitals
in insane asylums
in graveyards
evaporates as smoke
or vapored angels
all
have disappeared through windows
beyond your trace--
those who you felt close to
but never really touched
the letter you wrote
but never mailed
to the suicide
whose heart you broke
reaches for your mind
just one last time
one last time
one last time
you roll another day
like a stale cigarette
in the all-nite diner of your soul--
a drunken masquerade on parade
in a dingy motel
just killing time
just killing time
let me entertain you
as death
floats around the room
paces the floor with the ticking clock
curls your blood and voyeurs
in and out of you
in and out of
twisted bed-sheets
dressers and drawers
shoes and socks
with two left feet
that know you
no better than strangers
it's the inverted world
where
night is day
and day is night
where
right is left
and wrong is right
in the blue and lonely hours
Mirror stares
at her own glass face
Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few. his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish. A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence. Her collected poems On the Way to Invisible is forthcoming in 2023.
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