a The Plagues I was only a featherer, the brown birds, when of a number I was also called to visit the plagues to the Booking towns. And when ten of us were brought to Him, I hid behind them in the door; but how did I offer my humility? He said to us, “You shall make caries”; “You shall cause brittleness”; “You shall confuse”; “You shall take the skin”… There was a row to Him, of beautiful quarterfoils. But how did I stand up? He said to me, “You shall affect the heart. And two and three shall go together, even five and six, but not you.” And it was then reasoned among them that I should go first. I did put out from a soft hill, with everything behind me. I trust upon You, even to violence. But what do I have now at the gate, what voice have I, that I should not take even one, while nine other vengeances, who are also kind men, wait without the town and starve? A Pot of Glue If far too long you've waited on your circus pay a toft manqué the right bus line from Water to Wine and all undo both old and new when love is not the spoon or pot remember instead together in bed our neat Grace of paper and paste. No One Comes to Vjolscher Anymore The Bombing Survey written and the beautiful Spring imminent, I went to the Vjolscher Museum of the Mirror before they boxed at last the Algus Fright Collection and all the others once that returned a reflection but fell in love and do not work anymore. No one can prepare to forget and that is why I went. The Palace Mice The Mice are in my pocket, soot and stubbles, too. I am going to the Palace that you had wanted to. With fowls on every awning and stoats in the street, I am the chaud-medley of a thousand rounds of squeak. There's a pall in the market, talk in the launderette, the Mayor makes provision, the Tusks are taking bets and business bustles for poisoners and cats where any sensible woman keeps a gun under her hat and maybe we're a vermin or just a casual guest that makes a social visit to your everyday unrest but Endeavor is a crown sparkling in the sun, Love shall wear it shining and Mice shall wear it dun so prepare, you foolish people, in your hopeless kingdom for the reft and raving sea on which the little Mice will come among the Astors, the Jones and the guttersnipes under the baseboards and in through the pipes, amok in the storeroom and up to the Gates to ask a simple question at a Mouse’s rates: Who has the King's bubo to make the Palace pay? Like nephews and nightshade, we're kindly run away when thimbles of cheddar cheese are lowered from the wall. We dreamed our whole world with no other arsenal. The Sea of Everyplace Else I know the empire will end, but today, lying abed I am perfectly convinced it will not be during my life. I am not indifferent to death. I am expected. My slaves wave their arms to speak, I am unfaithful to my wife. Wishfulness is a vice against God; my poets wish. All in this world is in abundance, joy and pain. When will the store of these vanish? Why should I care of them again? The transport on perfume, the Merveilleuses, the epimethean gardens of the lotos, the public mutilations and the fastuous jewelry, where to sleep, what dearth possess to sharpen on innocence my free desire? If I have nothing to which I am pious, for the mere fables, I’ll fall in with tempters: You’re different from others but not from us. Every departure needs a fortuneteller who hates himself until he’s a perfect lover. I am not proud. I am not kind. I have enough money to buy the death for any in the crowd: like the equilibrist who walks the gaps between the cathedrals, the Icehouse and the bars. Without the town underneath, he'd collapse in the cathouse cream of its boudoir. As far from him in every way, in all the quiet, chthonic places we could meet after the venationes , pale Lucullo, like a stray brushes the lions beneath the street. The only world given, for our Apollyon, is between the Baths and rose hotels; even if He could be anyone I want I’d still hear the Sea of Everyplace Else. The waters from that Sea, miles away, are brought to our fountains by the aqueducts under which I have walked at night distrait with perfect fascinations, but the consuming worst is the heart’s renewal. Detach its color, diminish its power I hear as in a shell the parts of its reversal: Begin again this self-same hour. But the bed is soft and I have paid for the girls from each race, the wine, the scents, all this, and I can have so much more. Everything I have been given, I have kept. Let the Chaldeans come and make out three bands the wind, too, as my children feast, in their brother’s house, I have my substance in the cold, virescent land and the idle hours of the Cross.

Amazon Review

"This is an astonishing piece of work. In today's mumbling, dumbed-down world an author that actually has competent command of the language! Amazing... [The Morphine Fawn is the] First book I have sampled in a very long time that is worth the price. Bravo!" — Peter F Walsh, Amazon Review, 5 Stars