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.
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…
My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-knowing, faded margin.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.
Et vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
become my name!
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.
silence, not lust nor
in darkness, fragmented, apart.
My nothingness, announced.
Everything was said,
phrases like crushed glass in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.