It will all be over soon. Aaaahh, damn them, the rotational optics of insanity is gaining momentum in my head. I am not a woman. I am a macroscopic particle. A Spinning top. Call me Spinning top. I will do it so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand won’t shake. I will mildly lean forward, legs spread to shoulder-width, yes. Calm the body down. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Deep breath. Aim, pull, calm… Calm…
You,
with a wax masque of a Summer rain,
inconstant scatterbrain
Know:
the love of fathers is hell
on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff
than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:
The Woman: who is a river
(for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine
( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you
(ultimate mistress)?
You, who are present but not present,
Know:
Hate has a heart!
The green heart of shot Lorca
and wrath of God!
He, alike you:
Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!
To gift the legal age
he rapes the Vestales
Bloodsucker!
Anathema!
Harpy!
You growl too loud,
desert fa(ng)ther.
I know you encircle girls before the door
.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.
Know:
My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!
Know:
Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.
Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!
Like I . . .
Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child!
Maasalam!
*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic
(I) Not a man, merely a warning to others.
Rider in eternity
In holy day of the paunch
The trample of the horse on trail leads the reprobate to the gates of the black Castle
In the entourage of the greedy, debauchee, gamblers
(steeped are all of his pockets)
the lock clicks and closes like a roomette of the sarcophagus
I am not a man, merely a warning to others.
Blood of the rider on the sorrel horse decants down the eyes of the sword.
Draw your courage.
Skeleton leaks from the paunch
Down valves of thirsty purple, cold sun
For madman who surfeit gnawed naked trees.
„Provision of wheat for a groat, three provisions of barley for a groat, and oil and wine there won’t be.”
I am not a man, merely a warning to others,
Swollen from anger and cry,
With eyes the color of swamp
Wizened body…
Inflamed are the furies
(Heracles , here is fire!)
minds are fed with hunger
(death with no hurry)
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