This page is devoted to an ongoing project…a meditation…

Eden lost (Mesopotamia)

PART 1 (C1-7)

C1 Atlas

Genesis, the beginning,

Genesis, the primeval progenitor

Genesis, a structure and an order,

to fill the earth and rule over it

Genesis, giving birth to a conjunction

A confusion of bodies

Two heads, two faces,


Janiceps, after Janus

God of openings, illuminated beginnings, and endings

January opens the New Year

Facing in opposite directions

Janus and Atlas can never meet

First articulation,

Atlas pivots on the axis in confirmation,

opens at the neck.

Choking, spitting blood, the woman,

who lacks a womb, learns again how to walk

Slow, sexless, and in a dark, painful mourning,

she embraces emptiness,

sees the world with new eyes.

Second articulation,

Negates, cannot bear the weight of a child.

Supplication disregarded in a civilised world,

Yet still, a man prays, for the first time, for the woman

He is afraid of being afraid of dying

A body translated through a transverse arch

In double articulation, the receiving heart possesses form and substance

Atlas turns steadily, doubly, on the dens, ensures that the woman,

who lacks a womb, cannot.

Primordial Titan, born of a neat-ankled maid,

Atlas supports the cranial heavens,

Turns the painters eyes, once again, towards Eden

Beauty lies in an idea of truth,

Plato’s fair notion,

and a line defines a contour of Eve’s forbidden fruit, the curve of Adams apple

A line defines the length of a rib, the turn of an ankle,

A line defines the ravages of pain and time on skin,

as it shrivels.

Fluid glazes become layers of flesh in an orgy of sensual tints,

mixed with green,

as the painter covers the bones.

Highlights are the dappled bloom of titanium

The painter tries in vain to catch the figure concealed by the form

The surgeon draws a scalpel through shivering flesh

Did they take the cervix? The last vestige

Adam and Eve reborn

In the Garden of Eden, form is overtaken and figures escape

The neat-ankled maid, who was never a goddess

And the man who cried, who never had a choice

Knew themselves

Knew each other

Both become

aware of their nakedness, they flee in the light of the flaming sword

in the east and turning every way, to protect the tree of life.

As the scalpel opens the wound that blossoms like a flower

An opium flower trampled into the mud

The flower of England, blood red in a buttonhole

A remembrance, a plastic simulacra

Where once there were flowers, there is war

In Eden

In Mesopotamia four rivers meet

In the land between rivers blood now flows through Iraq

A phrenic innervation

A bloody inhalation

exhaled in Eden

The flaming sword turns again, the flying bullet is herald

A body now known, defiled

An involuntary expulsion of vomit, shit, urine

An Expulsion from Eden

The spine as a whole/hyoid

Rebirth, lying in the lap of innocence and blood,

articulates the story of life, narrated through a beautiful botanical idea

epic poetry

Life, carried erect on a bony column of his-tory, her story,

A structured narrative, the sum of relations

between articulations, embedded in flesh

penetrated by grief

exorcised through language.

That which separates man and beast

A silent scream of existential horror bursts into sound

through the hyoid bone, a remnant of a primitive,

a fish that never swam in cyanide rivers.

Submerged in the throats of man and woman, the preternatural gill,

mediates between cranial heaven,

and the heart

Body and bone,

The skeleton maintained, levelled, balanced by the spine

The cervical, thoracic and lumbar

But the heart breaks,

speech fails as atlas and axis articulate and heads bow down, ,

eyes lower,

muscles wither,

flesh sags,

and is stripped

The neat ankled maid

stripped of her youth

The woman

stripped of her womb

The spherical eye turns in its heavenly bowl

and depression averts its gaze from Eden,

Before, in a garden of pleasure

Where black silk is bloody and trodden,

by dogs, hungry for meat, everything is raw and ancient.

Human form melts in emotional dissolution,

Bony narratives twist and distort into horror stories

as sickness rolls in the gutters of San Jose.

And in Zapote,

running in packs, carrying machetes across presidents’ lawns,

they survive, to live in squalor

The woman carried a chair,

He carried a bowl for soup.

He stood in line, in the rain,

She struggled.

He offered to help,

for nothing more than a smile.

But behind the eyes?

She opened her own, wide in pain as she stole their hungry gazes and locked them inside her mind.

Far from her soul

A thousand colones, muchas gracias machita


Breath diaphragm



clothed with skin and flesh,

fenced with bones and sinews.

A raised arm, open handed,

an offering, a fractured life seen through hollow eyes

Body broken, rugose skin, burnt,

peels away to expose, flesh, nerve, tendon

Twisted veins, cut arteries

Bloody vessels



Seated in ashes, in the darkness that seeps into an emptiness

where once there was a life


My soul is weary of my life;

I will leave my complaint upon myself;

I will speak in the bitterness of my soul.

Are not my days few?

cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little,

Before I go,

whence I shall not return,

even to the land of darkness and the shadow of death;

down in the city

bodies, wretched, lean against the cold

submerged under fur and coloured fleece

shod in leather and sheepskin

flesh and bone wrapped in skin that is not its own

Two years on and still

Emptiness within

A dark hole where memory lay, curled against the stone

Like a kings in a cold tomb

Death. Warmed under the Mediterranean sun

Turquoise hues on the water resonate with yellow spurge

The graveyard weed

She felt the dust of ages under her feet

As she trod, roughshod, over dreams

Under Panama

The tropics were subsumed by the temporate

In a walk, a slow flick of the brim

Towards the left

Two years and sixty

A celebration precipitates a mourning


I wish you had had more time

To get over it

To come to terms with it

In Elysium the garden grows

Incandescent native species ward off the foreign advance

With neatly tied leaves

The hordes divide and are conquered by a song

An abundance

The distraction of choice

In Elysium the garden continues to grow


In Elysium death is never tasted

Never in the fields on the western margin

Never in Elysium

The spurge never grow in Elysium

It grows where death can find it

Where life is allocated a resting place

The woman sought life, but found only the remains of royal idolatry

Blue water, yellow spurge, the red of a sunburn

Primary colours on the painters palette

Produced an expressionist mess proclaimed by an insane professor

That turned the woman’s thoughts to words

A shoulder turned in its socket in the turquoise shallows

A salty taste in the mouth turned to the sweetness of blood as pain bit down

Bite your tongue

Stem the flow of words

Watch from the window as the sea is crowned with concrete

Spitting and vomiting debris with every turn of the tide

Lets see what is through the round window

Windows to souls

Eyes turn inwards

With sorrow

As shock degrades into disappointment