There Is by Paul Recombinnaire

There is this one fine night, which, when blue
and framed by thick, young arms, carries my beloved back again
There are sonnets in the sky and with the kiss of liberty coming on, it
makes methane think of lava tubes from which the
burgeonings might some day be reborn
There is this eye-level hour slipping up beneath pink, other lips!
There are one thousand drunken nubs splintered by the
delirium of the harmonica's sigh piercing my electric fingers at noon
There is this clear afternoon sun on the bubble completely blinded by
a diagram showing an army of red dots
There is the obvious fact that all examples of erotic madness were
hatched a long time ago in the intestinal trenches of Nietzsche,
Goethe, and the gallop of a horse
There is the obvious fact that Iam dying over a little scarlet box which
has thus far behaved as a vapour tinged with sadness should
There is in my wallet a clutch of antique noses
There are long, emotional wars marching past with anxious faces
There is this helpless tremble under my lips with its undeceiving sun
hurrying among the paradise of storms
There is the bright cluster of particles arriving at a trot beneath
the savannahs in silhouette
There is, according to rumour, a spy who infiltrates
the slender thread near here, invisible as the uniform he has
assumed for the poverty of images and in which
he is now muffling sobs
There is this dawn, full of detergent love, stroking the noses of ascetics
There is this fantasy of unregimented life awaiting the latest stench
to reach us via debilitating flakes of colour
There are at midnight details of soldiers exploring
backward glances toward the past
There are spindly ghost legs in the negative silence pleading with the
bosom of my beloved for a sonata that would not betray their trust
There is this mill of horny doom so drearily repetitious of itself
There is this audacity that refers to love as linen only five kilometers away
There are all these shades of red scurrying outward this way and that way,
far from the seat of control
There are syllables beyond the horizon of imagination and desire growing on
the sidewalk in some foreign country or another
There are the long hands of my profound absorptions to consider
There is this haunted building which I've made from unwanted suffering
culled from some future world
There is my hateful tragedy left out in the rain
There are all these rumours of a rattle like black water which will
never spend two words
There is the god of Love who is yet to receive any long letters
regarding my situation here on this planet
There is the scent of music that carries something imperious across
the prophecy phase of a dream
There are men on earth who've never swum across potentiality,
or wondered whether they would ever learn the secret to innocence, despite the
progress we've made during this war on invisibility