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Sunday, December 25, 2016

the rock

on a couch
life looks fine
as long as one
knows how to walk

in the desert
all is beauty swinging
in labyrinthic change:
are there springs?

what does the hungry
man do with a ticket
to King Lear:
he cannot eat it

i cannot describe
this rock in the sea
it is cold and lonely
no ship comes near

i went there
by forgotten boats
off track
and no lights set

i remember
it was dark
when i arrived
as it is dark now

i have no body 
now, i am a ghost
with ears and
memories inside

sometimes i hear
gulls and a sobbing
in the melody of winds,
i smell the salt. the stars

have their own scent.
and here i will die
on a rock, a sofa
or in neon light,

it will be the same.
i saw two birds
in opposite flight
fading away.

in the sky, traces
of planes flashing
criss-cross, meaningless,
did they lift off the earth?

sometimes in me
telephathic presences
out of other spaceships,
tentacles reaching out

and i don't know,
to shudder 
or to find comfort
being reached

on this black and solid
so slippery rock
to which i am chained
by my denial to be

it is a secret:
at times i leave
for an excursion
a day trip into freedom

which i find
has more prisons
than me
and my rock

i don't know
what to do with
the void, it sucks
all  into nothing.

so i pray
on my rock
to let me fade
away like fog

and i hear the
horns blow,
the cities fall
and a flood will come














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