Saturday, November 5, 2011

astra disastra digitalis

The old and broken doll with twisted digits
drawn through a gap in the heart or the sky
sits in a cornered clump in rusted rags;
tilted head, half open, mannequin’s eyes
mourning a dead lover’s muted sperm
a silent squawk-box buried in her belly,
limbo of robotic baby-speak---ah, what went dead
inside you first? Your double d battteries? Corroded
triple-a, excremental, chemical cylinders of charge?
Who put your throat’s papery violin to sleep?
When did you put your eyes in your pocket, again?

And you, ancient doll, who threw herself
in the throes of the dance and broke her spine,
“il se prend pour un star”
yes, there are stars, too hot to handle, and stars
too far to be seen by the blind, signed
Mr. F. Lubbard, yes, stars, collapsing the yes,
virgin aureaolae, depths upon steps of
depths, skin deep, vanishing
at the universal boundary of information
seen in this coal-dark basement
in a broken tarnished mirror
on a bright and empty chair
when I was 5.

You, red and fair daughter of distant Danes
and Liths, remind me of all the girls and boys
swirling in the pockets of resistance, fighting for the freedom of islands,
the two fern-green, lime-green
planets of vanity and fertility
set in one skull’s orbit, crooked teeth
signature, suture, singularity.

Have I taken the small things growing larger with time seriously?

There is a dead television screaming
an ingenuous formal pornography, dull grey
cyclopean consumerist identity, saying
go lick the cock and balls of money
handled by many
take the disease
your dreams by the ounce
permit you to buy.

Love is not a trial, can’t be won
by any lawyers
and there is no judge of it.
Love’s only god is love.
And there is no love but love.
It is not a moral issue at all.
It is Elan. Succulent paradise, promised.
Go towards your heart’s goal.
Go through my gate.
Or through the gate of others.
Or remain inside your dark house of memory
And pass through yourself.
Hold me so I can love you.
Or free me to love others.
Without love, being unable to love,
I am dead, dumb fruit withers. I want to live
And yet I am dead? Or hanging, drooping
Earthwards, wishing, I were, already?
This is death’s spurious circle.
I want to step outside it, for now.

With you or without you.

Come, let me go.

“and on the night of their departure they noticed burning a star”

in a crystal quiver
I see symphonies of eyes
shot out from me
some spectacular night
on the fringes of time

March 14, 2009
10.28 pm
Poznan. Polska

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