I wish to create a poem of paintings
Made more beautiful by the blade of a knife.

A gallery, vast and alight.
Hand-crafted objects
Of massive wood deepen the fear;

Tables with little bows, as if cut from boxes of chocolates.
Canvases framed with frail slats.

Faces are present on the exhibit
The types painted
By the vertically challenged girl-friend of pride:

They bite, they pierce…

They are our nothing,
Like our inhaled breath,
Nothing,
Like the exhaled one,
Nothing,
Loquacious and empty
(with a dislocated shoulder or two)

I wish to create a poem of a craftsman
Who paid for his work to be displayed.
I wish to create a poem of a pigsty
It being a continuation
Of a Salierian fear

I wish to write nicely, picturesquely, of the eyesore,
So much so that you could sense it, touch it,
Yet I cannot, when all is nothing
(you cannot grasp the invisible)
I threw the wasteland on and brought a map
Moving towards Vienna at dusk
Where Mozart used to play,
And now wolves cry and lie in it.

A snake stuck in the crack
Its sweet tongue-fork
While it turned the body of the megalopolis
Into a backwoods middle-of-nowhere.

Overjoyed, the apathetic world
Not gazing at the canvasses
Is showing itself to the world.

Through the pap whose turn it was
The salesman accepts the haggle.

Sad, semi-finished paintings
What has a vain hand done to you
to make it only possible through a poet’s visualization
for you to reach what you could once have been.

I see nothing on you
Other than the shining sea
And the glorious terraces where I can enjoy
The stunning view,
Only illness and death,

As if from a ruin
The defeat reeking of rotting fruit
(and someone had probably bought you as well)

I hid away in the embrace
Of the uncertain eternity,
In a dark, mum world.

I have not heard so much silence on a noisier spot
Nor have I smelled so much darkness
Even in the caverns of my heart
While in the waking nightmare, dreaming,

I was choked by a thing very much alive.