Aught, no. 15 (2006)

Bruna Mori

After Affect

There is fire in the sun.
There is not much sun.

The reality boat of sediment
dances on my infirm sleep.

There is fire in the sun,
I will visit its citizens.

Salt with the slip of llamas,
star of stars,
somber of slumber,

darkness of light
of the vented alms.
Now in the innocent hour,
when without sentences,

in the umbilical cord:
An unremembered poem

has constrained your horse,
has imploded your birds,

has gulped the time
with proper concerns.
Has terminated the self
of which nothing commences.

Rebellion consists in the seeing of
the rose after pulverizing the eyes.

The beloved veterans, enter,

hallucinations with the
pigmented skin of the parrot,

cocoons of memories
devouring their speech,

entering the coffers of citizens,
and speaking to old beasts.

In the hour of the creased land
in the memory of the cowboy,

time pronounces discourse
in the moment of the lilies.

As someone enters death with eyes
open, another appears in your vision.

The color of time in the abandoned
wall. In my sight, thought parted all.

It’s more than in proximity, more
than near, to know what here, was.



Today, we are inclined to destroy
the reverent peonies before

a million watching mountains.
Wait for the innate molding,

smoldering rays that torte the
trashing of the villa of its fog.

Return blue sonnets in red-greens,
defile that hive in tremendous baritones.

Want to be more altruistic
for buying barbs, as Alzar frees bandits.

Trade the hollers of others,
float my desperation, Aurora.

Imagination of your equality
in cold aesthetic.

Return the brave in annulled pieces,
kilometers of nuisances and nieces,

and gulps of the relevant tourniquet.



And the time strangles my sister.

Twelve figures, insidious gains
configuring gratitude.

Tilling roads under the obscure

Record the roughness of
turning mountains and

ocular radios,
two yellow cups,
two rasping gorillas.

Two kisses communicate the
vision of an existence of
another existence.

Two promises of tremendous

Actually two promises of
yes sir and no sir.

Two play the rounds of casinos
of champagne yellow whiteness.

Two mirages/visions circle
the avenue of a sister girl.

Four soldiers revolve/revolt.
Debris, one death, one nothing.

Are the ardent wayfarers

disconnecting over my future.

Discontented baked cow.

My only recourse

the somber of the trite sun


Appendages of my sister.

Promises that coagulated
in front of the sign of the

strangled sisters, and the
time strangles my sister’s

brilliant ascent of another.


Copyright 2006, by the author. All rights reserved.
Return to Aught, no. 15, contents