And World’s Memory Moves, Part Two

Photo by Khashayar Kouchpeydeh on Unsplash. CC0/Public domain.

You wait for the dynamic appetite
for life in ascending rhythm
he pushes you into the confusion
of what supervenes, in all directions
there’s tremor and whisper, murmur
and half of words a dry wind blows
and he causes an immense whipping
that unfolds, expands in the air.

The new era, the new hour
is very severe, you can’t tell
that the success is assured to you,
beloved be people who sit around
you, beloved be the unknown
person and his lady who smile
on you my fellow man with pistol
and truncheon who can’t take his
eyes off me beloved be also myself
the one full of lice and eaten
by leprosy, I walk through
the rain as behind a dead person
I stumble on the corpse of a dog,
I beg him pardon and I put two lit
candles for vigil. The hazes freeze
in the haven of dolour. The bread
is wet with rain.

The pastor made himself hoarse calling
by her name the supple, luminous
danceress over to the luxury nightclub,
he was singing ardent psalms and
the Song of Songs to her his wicked
theological being was singing his own
heart escorted by the danceress weeping,
weeping for himself and excessively
similar to her shadow he saw her growing
old, he saw her in the coffin. At a certain
point, she, merciful, put a statuette of
naked Venus in his hands and he was
nervous and the statuette fell off his
hands and the statuette was deprived
of a leg for evermore. But the pastor
didn’t understand that there was no more
time. That’s all. This, never ever.

At every moment
we prepare our food
in every sound a stone
stone from among stones
and speechless times.

Snow streaks on the summits
in the summer mornings, ruins
of an immemorial sky are equal to life.

No one wants to know me,
my century sets up nets
so that the years shouldn’t
forsake him like the insects
that doesn’t depend, that
doesn’t depend on me
my century sinks into the ocean
like a ship that dashed against
an iceberg and here I am alone
with the years ‒ new and
undeniable thing, you live
a hermit even in the womb
of your mother, listening
to the people around.

Space and time are aflame in the eyes
on the hills like a love of yours, like
an angel of yours in the dream,
you divine death, you who reread me
you count my infernal duties, your
hands become like a breeze of
the intangible distances and within me
a night is born.

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