The beast in the tall grass

Born in that summer morning, we both stood outside in the tall grass without the fear of snakes. And the apples grew yellow and red, and the sky was of a constant blue, cloudless. I could see the sweat running down your forehead and I wanted to wipe it off, but the world wouldn’t let me do it. At night, I would cry because I knew that later on, even yawning will have a dark significance. The body will grow big, and the mind will have to develop techniques to understand it. I wish I could say I love you. Because I do. But this word, love, comes from a place of confusion. And if I tell the truth that truth will consume me, and it will take you away from me. And I don’t want that. Let us remain and forget about the inevitable storm. Let us touch, but only in our minds, let us make love without the truth being present. You’ll lie down, and I’ll be right beside you and the sky will have a whole new meaning. Smile. The sun is just right. What shall we do, you ask, when grandfather or even father, shall find us sleeping in the tall grass, attached to each other in the fury of the evening? We’ll hear only the sound of the steps cutting through the yellowish grass and the sun and the sky. We’ll do nothing, I say. We’ll wait in silence, so as to hear the wrath of those steps as they walk away, shoes filled with knowledge. We’ll have, by then, nothing else but our love and our bodies attached to each other. By the time the steps have vanished our gods would have disappeared too. Father, how could it be? How come from a body like yours a beast like me could have risen? How could that architecture go wrong? By means of a thought? As I go home, taking after father’s steps I watch you sleeping covered in light. I know at home I’ll find this silence multiplied by ten and sprinkled with anger. Why did you keep this away from us? I was afraid, father, I’m afraid of what might come, of what will come. I’m afraid it’s nothing, and how could you live on nothing, how could you? Of all the people in this world, how could you, father?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

sutura | gymnasium

sogni di criogenesi

Christianity Other-wise

Exercises in Re-Thinking the "Western" Tradition... and Other Fun Stuff

Time Now

The Iraq and Afghanistan Wars in Art, Film, and Literature

Marcolupo's Blog

a scrivere sono bravi tutti

Libreria Internazionale Luxemburg

"Vivere senza leggere è pericoloso, ci si deve accontentare della vita, e questo comporta notevoli rischi." Michel Houellebecq

La McMusa

Te la do io l'America

Charter of Writes

The thoughts and ramblings of a dreamer

Life of A Fallen Angel

Clarity through flight...

The Glass Closet

Diary of a Closeted Homosexual

Live to Write - Write to Live

We live to write and write to live ... professional writers talk about the craft and business of writing

Mostly About Books

What I'm Reading and Writing



The Neighborhood

The Story within the Story


what happens in my mind put into words


Turning Tears & Laughter into Words

%d bloggers like this: