Sad are my days with stones
instead of hands
or my head sunk into the deep
whiteness of my pillow
and my body squashed by feeble cranes.
Those are days to cry for less
or to plaintively argue with a shiny skull,
a convex tapping
on the lingering wall.
To stay listening to the blood,
the tubular sound of the blood. Drawing the
water, the blood, into the dry valley
of the collarbone, slurping the intestinal
soup, or if the liquid escapes
the tantalising mouth, stuffing with clay
what is begging for water.
To stay probing into the holes
of absence, the straps of
absence, the pit where
thoughts fall, the persimmon
colour that bathes infirmity
and then to feel the fading
pulse, halt the bull, the stab of pain,
the infinite present infinitive.
A suffused soul
migrates with the sturdy breath
of a painful street cry, the condor
flies and walks the walk and chalks
an asphyxiating trace: I paint a rarefied sky,
my dyspnoea is a feline
that scrapes the skies
and my mouth in foamy turmoil
expels the taste of death
and whatever else it manages to spit out
through stays and shrouds
and broken beams.
Things disappoint me so,
things are deeply disappointing,
things with their half-filled emptiness.
My breath is a folio full
of silence, a natural catastrophe,
a volcano: laying lava in my lung
and darkness in thunder.