I wonder why, is it just me, my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.


1
Who could speak the language
of Gods, and remain forgotten yet
unloved, a sailor
who dreamt of bridging the wings
of the earth, the blind
man who survived the sirens
and remained aloof and well known on the shore.

2
I swung in the rain in Hades
and torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day askew, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh shimmering towards the horizon…

3
Fires shrieked!
My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-knowing, faded margin.

4.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.

5
Et vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.

6
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
become my name!

7
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.

8
Words speak
silence, not lust nor
curses, emptying
in darkness, fragmented, apart.
My nothingness, announced.

9
Everything was said,
phrases like crushed glass in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.

10
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.

fearmirror

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Serbia


“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”
The landlady waves the electric bill,

eyeing me as if I were her lamb meant for slaughter,
but I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips.

Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue.
Amunet agrees, and envelops me in her generous embrace.

The cities understand, the blindness sees,
the blood of the innocents still flows as I cast

the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
after I’ve sacrificed myself to the world outside.

She burns at the doorstep, bills in embered hand…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.

And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
Glory! Amen, oh Babylon!

I walk thy streets, bare and free.
Rabbi Isa, deliver me not from Evil.

prison

Marigolds, My Wounds


Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,

lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen

suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,

cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate

in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre

the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier

of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows

and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.

Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.

marigold

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