A good all round mark seems far away
when considering the continuous
assessment of the meetings between
home and this body that haunts it; but the nights
read better now since it’s winter,
the window light dies early on us
and the dark releases its insomniac hosts,
scratching patina and soot
that stick to things we had thought of
and left all over the bedrooms
and the passage.
We are taken seriously
down to a corner
and spanked for some over-ripe idea that we’ve
dropped on the floor.
But our mind readjusts, holding on to
that does a bit of everything, short dancing steps
and precious little signals. It comes and goes
bringing to our mouth
a handful of colourful tablets, and in this way
it lends some little wheels to the chair and swings
through a luminous cove, swallowing
sounds, painting them in the stomach, and then,
puts its fingers down the throat, and pukes
out visions that smell typically like deliriums.
We follow the shadow
movements, now pulling them a bit
more towards us, now giving them back
to the walls, and we recognise each one
of our skinless dreams and the women
who escaped them taking the whole lot –
all we have conjured to keep warm
in the cold. So many portraits, names and animals
that have kept us company
and held the distance set between
some feelings and the nervy laughter of madness.
This one is an enormous weight, it’s growing unbearable.
Man to man
we share a gesture, sit together
in silence and see our reflection on the television screen.
It’s showing film adaptations of our loneliness, based
on the free hand and inspiration of Russian poets whose names
the rotten mouth, which made famous
so many boring writers, cannot pronounce; idiots
like those who carry buckets of water
to attend to the fire spreading through the wrists,
inside the spellbound veins of this supreme fiction.
And we applaud till our hands
bleed. Anything goes, a sea that isn’t blue,
and has never been called to any poetry line, comes to bathe
and poison our feet; it’s dark, it’s thick
like a god’s saliva, a god
who kept a terrifying silence and now speaks.
And we lie there, stuffing our belly, gulping it
all up, greedy, insatiable, demolished by an immense thirst.
If we manage to make it back, we feel phased out
by the long exposure to flashes,
our eyes having been copied
into each thing, each object. Helicopters,
shocks of light and energy land on our shoulders,
our imagination incarnates in fairies and beasts
which go faster than our being able to name them.
Just about then, the siamese who lets us live here
went by and stopped staring at us, there,
and, like a wireless, he tunes in the world.
He teaches advanced music: the score throws notes at us,
the shivering sounds bite our flesh, straight
to the bone. It may be death singing
at such a time, and we could surmise it already,
for fear is among all
the fiercest of our talents.
The house has at last filled up with guests and I call you
again to come closer
and in your ear I whisper a warning – I won’t forgive
you if you turn the page
without at least a note on the margin.
I ask you:
pick up the pen, scribble away,
make a hole, put your cigarette out,
print a coffee stain
or any other memento, leave
a hair or a sigh, a trace of the life
you just now had, a trace of how old
you just now were.