an old writer and his words

  • REAL TIME

    Reality is clearly something to be avoidedto be dressed up in tattery, tied in ribbons,perfumed, yet its fetid stenchis always lurking in the backgroundwaiting to pierce your nostrilsin an incautious moment until you retchand bring up the bile that marksthe darker moments of your life,the kind that lingers in the throatwhich no chocolate can erase.Reality…

    Lou Faber

  • THE WRITER STUMBLES

    Each yearin Pamplonathe bulls begintheir slow descentdown the narrow streetsgaining speednostrils flaringmuscle and sinews tautthey forge aheada white wavepreceding themin their mad dashand each yearthere is one,some years twowho, by slip of footor lapse of judgmentmeet the hornsof the lead bullwho in disgustsnorts“this oneis noHemingway.” First published in Defenestration ,Vol XVI Issue 2 August 2019

    Lou Faber

  • A BUFFALO PASSES 無門關 三十八

    Staring out, watch the bullwalk slowly pastalong the old road.Marvel at his horns,the flare of his nostrilsin his massive head,his breath hangingin the early morning chill. Mark each leg, itsmuscles rippling, as it passes.You feel you know the beastbut only if you close your eyescan you grasp its tail. A reflection on Case 38 of…

    Lou Faber

  • SENSELESS

    You place the shroudover my head,it is dark, but Ican still touch her cheek. You cut offmy fingers, leavingonly stumps, but Ican still taste her tears. You pull outmy tongue, there isonly bitterness, but Ican hear her morning laugh. You drown mein a sea of noisenothing breaks the din, but Ismell her sweetness. You fill…

    Lou Faber