'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Berlin
tread soft, tiny little sled boots:
feel each decietful crater collapse
a repeted catastrophic death,
(the capsized glaciar fits your sole
one hundred times!)
though you will buckle
slide-step
shriek-
back to your burrow of felt,
your strange vapours wander.
The Sky and The Sea
She said "what do I want? Of course I want Sky!." This is where we differ, as, for my next act, I will be the sea above all. It's the sea who has had men leaping to it in agony and knowing only then both the victory of their small strength and the enormous insignificance. I would be an engulfing and terrible sea with deep black pits and azure awells, a mass of insatiable convoluted systems, vibrant life and prehistoric secrets which, from the surface is serene and simple, even lifeless. My incomrehensible magnitude will be made of parts which I know both as intricate and intimate pieces of my identity, and as foreign and unattainable as the moons cold reflection on my glinting skin. I was coming to begin to realise, and to accept and to know in me, the horribly inescapable circularity of the universe, the perplexing and perverse aporia of a self-perpetuation beyond the feeble wants of human hands. And we do: we all suffer the same.
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