[13 August 2019]
clenched between molar and molar,
ground to pulp to ash to dust,
worn threadbare between pursed lips,
held aloft between two sweaty hands,
perpetually offering the sublime to the not yet
sacrificed, bloody on a bed of horseshoes and cobblestones.
in the waiting and the wanting we lie,
strung up, strung out, stretched taut, a cadenza
pushing ourselves to the margins of our desires,
filling ourselves to the brim with sandstone and sawdust,
considerate la vostra semenza:
fatti non foste a viver come bruti,
ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza.
My eyes are dim,
wasted from peering too long in the deepnesses between the stars,
seeking a sign on the face of the inscrutable
waiting patiently for the answer that may never come
på å bli
squandering hair follicles and collagen and muscle,
looking for a time when all things made old made new make sense.
There is something solemn about surrender,
something that fillets solitude and earmarks yearning for a time just down the road
(I caught a glimpse of him once,
standing between the pew and the wall,
asking me to relinquish only that which was never mine
in exchange for a freedom I can never have),
yet still we pacify longing,
carve out a sense of self worth selfing between uncommissioned bouts of nostalgia for by-gones long missed,
penitent patterings on pyrite and asphalt and bed sheets for mysteries hid fast behind a darkened veil.
I found him there, and
yo me puse a llorar y tú reías.
Tu desdén era un dios, las quejas mías
momentos y palomas en cadena.