hanz-the-scribble

 Photographer of the Urban Desert The moon is a broken piece of eggshell that snaps its shutters under the toe of a scuffed boot. Occupying the cool space between sole and ground sound cracks out as rhythmic as railroad tracks sidling toward a point through a desert reversed a desert seen through the inverse glassy pupil of the lunar camera. Pinhole star-pricks develop shadow-pictures on the wall of the sky basking in reflected light capturing Polaroids for dusty photo albums the moon will hand these in a brown envelope with black marker scrawl “to be discarded”  to the refrigerated lizards, with their goosebump-chill blood sitting

We are standing on a bridge, Looking at the river exploding Three feet beneath our feet, Pacing like a caged tiger Under rubber soles and grey paving, Tightening rubber bands around Our balled-up, lusting curiosity. We are standing on a contradiction, consuming moments that lock together with a symbiotic dynamite Choose - A surge Of electric charge rocketing more wild Careering more sensuously than the insidious undertow of the tide, capitulated By our own desire into the deafening roar of the river. It contorts sense into nonsense Silken clouds of combustion suck words into raging cycles, spitting Them out into violent action

Your Hands Speak Another Language Your eyes are foreign in a familiar way. Luminous fish dart from unfathomable corners, Piercing meaning suspended for an instant Before slipping into the dusky coral reefs of your irises; And though this is an unfamiliar continent I have seen shoals of fish in other eyes that Frisson and weave with the same significance. They wriggle down throats and spring out of mouths, Curling into suffocated arabesques That are batted back and forth in conversational waltzes, Fireworking through dialogues With a frivolous spirit. The air is busy and iridescent with scales and wordplay. This is a f

It should have been absorbed by now. Seven months since it slid, a mercury tarantula, up my spine and settled, nestling in the soft hollow at the base of my skull, weighty and claustrophobic, leaking barbed barbiturate like the pulse of a dripping IV. An insomniac’s gritty-eyed feverish sting every time your face rose like nausea, a metallic tasting screech each time your voice simmered under the delicate machinery of inflamed eardrum; all began to feel normal, stultifying my own senses like an opiate, like the morphine I’ve never tried but you knew like morning orange juice. So I assumed with addict mentality that it could be absor

Focus is impossible and Blurred like a seizure Scratched list of “things to do” rattles Into one another letters Jangling, clacking a Newton’s cradle Of drawing pins poking specks in cavorting Flames that fidget, down book spines Focus is impossible shredding Shrewd corners of ideas and concepts becoming Senseless loops of gramophone vinyl whine, stylus jagging and Grating Growling, in the background clicking like A jackhammer grinding into concrete, endless, Filled with moths and dice colliding in disparate directions, Focus is impossible Trying to lightning-rod a thunderclap it Won’t be channelled lik

There is an undiscovered current of violence in you that I want to taste. When I stand in front of you and feel your intentions boring into mine I become naked and lit under a cruel halogen lamp that blasts away shade. Every pulse of silence between us is a brutal clout that flakes away at my clothes and skin until I have to speak so that my words become protective arms shielding my face. Because I am terrified of you seeing the bleached bones of shadow lurking under my eyelashes and sinews. I am terrified of feeling your hands seize my shoulders and sublimating, leaving behind nothing except a crackling husk. I am terrified of the threads o