Faun

   Starry Night, Jean-François Millet Turning and twisting inside the hot room, my glass of juice spills on the floor and white linen rages like the Northern Sea while snow falls on the black garden outside the window.   Falling snow mutes sounds outside, and when a shell explode a couple of blocks away the shockwave multiplies into her spicy skin and primal harmonies as we swallow the intoxicating drink. An electric bass is tuned on somewhere and someone knocks heavily on the door.   My feet hit the sticky bits and pieces on the floor as you enter with the coldness of the carbonic acid snow of Mars in your Afghan fur. I say I heard you were killed and you  look dead pale to me when you spill your mind about the blood rimmed tide acoming and the matchstick men  who want to separate chap and animal. Not even warm cinnamon, spiced wine can bring back the color on your costly features as you ask me to follow into the night. When you disappea

Claude Monet Deeper and deeper into the web we come, until we reach the centre; here we rest while gnats hover like Zeppelins over our subterranean bodies. My body howls for a drink and the steamy centre makes us drunk of fluid and dew juice this is our blissful days: the rumble of the eastern drum concerns not us, the noise does not reach us. Our sour beat and sweetened Ayres, facilitate the hand of Oberon, until mere utterances are drowned in the growl of burnt firewood; plain noise, simple imitations, wipes us out ©    Anders Enochsson 2009

The Falling Rocket, James Abbot Whistler the gaslights burning lights of cobbled streets  she awakes in the darkened bedroom and screams stares into the starless ceiling listening to the snoring stranger beside her the moon reveals his sleeping face  she knows him he is sheltered but insane the beat of life before the wolf took him she is not his wife anymore  neptune roaring over the sea the bearded man big as the cliffs  with a trident in his hand  lantern she hurries down the beach  past echoes abandoned machine gun stations and finds me by the rotten seaweed the stench  i feel the map of tiny blood vessels  under her skin  as our breaths mingle  and august remains  ©   Anders Enochsson 2021