I wrote this poem a while ago and thought of making a video out of it. The music I’ve used for the poem is a section from The Antlers – Prologue (album “Hospice”).
or the good I am not. despite the small, private success of a life as mine, I can be, and I am, defined as another mouth to be fed, and another soul to be nurtured. the cruel truth is that one always feels like a bad investment. unwrapping and waving the white flag of ideologies of greatness does not mean that, financially speaking, the investment is secured. there is no hedge fund when it comes to a life. they, meaning parents, grandparents, friends, and relatives, might never recover, buy back, the things that they have spent for one’s life. I’m afraid we are nature, and nature grows trees, and flowers, and apples, and nature can ruin and never be reborn, it can grow poison, it can do things. how can I trust the hands of such an unstable, sickly, beastly, thorn-growing nature as mine, the nature of a human being, the nature of things. such lives are spent by, lent to, a more general nature of things among which the human nature just might be the most beautiful and the most repulsive thing there is. no other thing can recall such powerfully contrasting, mind-blowing, oppositions. so ugly that it is beautiful. like bodies, flesh and glorious architecture. mouths to be fed, yet, like hopes, they sleep as soundly as ethereal creatures during the day. dormant, the promise is embedded into the walls of cells, so thin, so full of power, so much like dust.
for those who need to be silent in order to live, be silent, pretend. it will be the longest moment of your life, like when you’re sick and the pain and the fever won’t go away. you feel like grass grows faster. grass does grow under your bed, you just don’t know it. every morning your grandmother goes and cuts it with small scissors, those that are used to cut nails. be silent, don’t say the things they do not want to hear, there’s always some conspiracy thing going on. just say that you are happy even though what is happening around you is bound to make you unhappy. silence will give you peace, silence will make you love, silence will help you bear your solitude with pride. go find a burrow and shout your secret into it then cover it with mud. it will work for a few nights. you’ll have the chance to sleep alone because your secret will be too busy getting out of the burrow. what would you wish for your birthday, the burrow will ask. and I’ll whisper: I wish to know somebody that could see, and not be blind like me. and the burrow will laugh. I tricked you into it, the burrow will say. once you say your wish to me it will never happen. that’s the thing with burrows, you see, you wouldn’t want a secret to get out of the burrow. just like that wishes will never get out of the burrow. wars and words you cannot take back. so be silent, pretend.
the fragmented feet of music. with paws and hooves all over. you train your epidermis to listen to new rhythms. before somebody else says what is this. nothing this is just a run over the whole specter of illusion. words uttered backwards. they do sound like a strange language you do not need to be taught. it is self-sufficient, obedient to the self and the selves of animals with paws and hooves all over. and for a moment lovers seem to be made out of stone. so rough, their love fragmented. time is needed for stone to settle. they do not grow old, these lovers. they seem the same. lean against me, body of stone. and the stones vibrate when paws and hooves run all over. your epidermis is now trained not to shiver at the thought of me. you are now a trained photo. to stay silent like that, seated on the time you’ve forfeited back then. to forgive you, to give you some slack, so that you may look back from the picture and smile. watch my present, and your future. your fragile breath sacrificed for one second until the shutter was open and closed again. but the future will write on the back of the picture the word fragile. the fragile word not to be touched.
when the lines are broken and the words recall different meanings in the same situations, all one does is whine about the muteness of hands held together. what is there to understand than two hands tied with muteness. I suddenly want us to be silent, will my hand fuse on your belly. shall I melt away from the heat of your body. become one with your rough skin. because I can feel the pores and the sense of despair. all hope is lost or absent. come on, howl, I want to see drama, let that despair materialize, contrast with the secrecy of our hidden love. two bodies like this should not be together, not in this life. you know sometimes, when I’m asleep, I fear that a pair of black wings shall pierce through the skin of my back and push you away because my gods would offer me those wings just to push you away. so tie me with the sheets, let my ugly grin contrast with the nothingness you hold into your empty womb like a cursed mother. I’m afraid it is too late, you say. my gods have already denied this love. they said you shall crawl with a deserted womb until you repent.
so I write a letter, my gods, and ask them why this cut, and they say, because if you look ahead, little by little, the world shall commit suicide. we leave you with the empty wombs. and I wonder when this wrath of bones will stop growing. the fruitless womb grows bones but no flesh. we’ll have to use our own flesh to fill in the blanks. connect the dots and this love shall be complete.
I cross my palms over you belly and my hands seem displaced. and you are scared. what shall we do, you ask. shh, nothing, I say. keep this displacement silent. they need a life. we don’t. I won’t melt away from the heat of your body. black wings won’t grow from the blades of my back and push you away. love is not as inhumane as we think it is. shh, they need a life. we don’t.
men and women like fingerprints, the soft whisper and the moisture of love chat. you can measure them by the use of light and space inserted in between. I myself am one night and one day tall. the space between me an my birth can be measured precisely by the use of kilometers. to cry over the schizophrenic condition of our existence is like acknowledging the immediacy of hands and the lack of grasping claws that could exorcise pictures. I myself hold two selves. but both are invisible. I am the fingerprint. the presence of absence, the digital presence of experiences untold, and of hands not yet held. the noblest feeling of suffering slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. in their flight the slings and arrows prepare for the pain. the one second of flight is repayed by immeasurable pain.
take arms against me though I’m not the sea of troubles you are looking for.
the sleep is the heart-ache. my flesh is heir to you. I know I shouldn’t be looking at you. your body is the bare bodkin I’m afraid to use. after that there won’t be a point to return. what would be the point of returning.
be all my sins forgot. my flesh transparent, my bones of air, my love of nothing else but you. when I leave you alone, make me the invisible man. I know, you need your life. I promise, I shall forget about mine.
shatter, things fall apart. the hand held high in the inherited skyline. sign of fury, the eyes going out of their sockets. the bare feet running, the contracted chest as if the whole body is pushing against the heart. against the simplicity of God’s gesture like two forefingers kissing, and hissing the push came and the steps taken backwards with the back against the bottomless pit. the other hand hiding the shame of the pubis. gods are always a step ahead, they already have sheets covering the shame.
but the back of the other kid is too stiff, he can no longer reach the hand held high. it might be the blue suit he is wearing, or the tie, the uncomfortable and unfortunate costume of rules and ethics. while the other is falling from discomfort. it means that the decisions have been taken. prior the prior priorities, when the things were not yet divided. why do the two boys stand face to face, I ask. in the flow of evolution men have to be heading for the same direction.
falling apart means losing the innate sense of direction.
the other boy looks at the sky and sees the stiffness of the unfortunate costume. but the smile is much too powerful for the inherited skyline.
why not, I ask. and he says because they need to have their life. what about mine. whataboutmine. whataboutmine. and while falling I become a body of blur.
the silence of blood is like going backwards in a song. the silence of steps resembles two hands placed side by side. blood is not gushing forth, blood like a friend, the voice of a soprano heard from the outside. others are full of expectations. even love is expected to gush forth. just like blood love shall not gush forth. love is swallowed and there’s no pride in it. so don’t march. there’s no glory in it if it doesn’t gush forth. because love has nothing to do with blood.
and I’m so afraid. I’m afraid that if I love you blood will gush forth. so I’ll have to look somewhere else when you pass by me. I’ll have to be one with the silence of blood that doesn’t gush forth and I’ll listen to our song backwards again. and think that you are there.
out of this I shall rise like a saint. my feet as dense as the water though solitude won’t make you virtuous like a well-kept virgin. solitude grows with the stillness of the idle. and tomorrow you will push me into a corner of the eye. and I’ll place my hands side by side begging for love to gush forth. and you will be helped by other thoughts to pass by me.
my two bodies thrown against the sky, one deleted of sins, one sinful, one deleted, one in full youth, it’s this doubleness that makes me furious, yes, the door can’t be opened both ways, you are either in or out. I hold the door locked with my hands. I did use my mother’s nail polish. she will look at me with one eye, the other one closed. it’s this doubleness I hate. why can’t I be one for all of you, including me.
I always ask myself which of the two bodies I like most. I say that one, with my mouth half-opened, while the other half stands closed, stubbornly. at birth the priest tied my mouth on that side. but does that body like me. the two bodies do not know as I speak too slow, feebly the words refuse to come out of my mouth. I use thoughts instead of words.
but thoughts cannot be heard.
two bodies thrown against the earth. gods tricked me into pulling them down, like wallpapers. but I still like the other body, not this one, the one you have given me. its architecture is the symmetry of love.
thoughts cannot be heard.
still – volcano – body. I have seen this body differently.