| And finally I twist my heart round again |
[Oct. 22nd, 2009|12:25 pm] |
And finally I twist my heart round again
Even before we reach the camp of the incinerated children, I am crying. Crowding cameras mimic the fickle flashes of disembodied souls. If you close your eyes really hard you may see her, pale as a ghost or, perhaps, a ghost already, walking in single file, hacking mercilessly and with her head swallowed up in hazy self-negation. Her juvenile intuition of the natural benevolence of man remains an inspiration to us all in the severity of these times, though in retrospect such courage will be recognized as little more than a common reference point for the measurement of hopelessness and the estimation of an inestimable bodycount. A sapphire star throws poison-flowers on the pool of deer's blood beneath which everyone seems to have conveniently overlooked. As the first captive parachutes off the train he falls and breaks his femur against the steps turning counterclockwise, scattering the birds from their designated nest of lies into whichever direction seems most charged with meaning on that occasion. The boy with the silver lungs faints; his mother rushes him to the hospital but does not notice the large orangutan in black uniform stalking close behind (for true horror is always a little silly). As she runs up the stairs the stairs collapse — the boy escapes but the woman is devoured physically as well as spiritually. The rest of us are led into a bombarded pomerium theatre where glamorous opera divas are casually thrown off stage. A curtain invisibly raised reveals the fatal bouquets of Memory, but no one remembers what they're looking at. I keep myself entertained with the girl's little feet dangling above my seat like two timorous words trapped in a diction class. |
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| 'Et si nous ne nous rencontrons plus jamais ...' |
[Dec. 31st, 2008|11:50 pm] |
And if we never meet again
On the stag's antlers
Reflected over the sea that recedes into the magnetic pull of sobs
Which swallow the stranded boats like winged tablecloth over floral glass and stone
I shall have no regrets
I have given up my life to your jeering
And fled in desperation off the balcony to the last beam of the opal moon
I have scribbled your name on a notecard folded like a clasp
In the bones of the little girl who knows the way to the underground thunderstorms
The man who followed her never came back like so many warm caresses
His body was identified by the locks of blond hair in his hand
Appalled witnesses say he was on his way to the arms of chance
Having just left the Church of the Holy Trinity
Your Eyes Your Legs Your Groans
Whose stained glass windows forged by the lion of fire
Evoke in resplendent echoes the ridges of the sun
Nestled in the agony of my love |
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