REQUIEM
I don't know how to start ...
I never really knew
how to do it.
I heard you have to write
about the truest thing
which you have experienced.
I wonder what existence
would that have been...
and whose?
Does it have to hurt?
I'm trying to calm down...
searching inside me
I reverse all questions
and I stop.
Only a few thoughts
remain
which weirdly wander
through my brain
and I feel my whole head mangled.
A few seconds pass jerkily.
I can't escape anymore,
I have to decide.
I realize I'm privileged
because someone is blowing me up
in my right ear.
It sounds easier now.
I will pretend,
I am going to envelop it
I will transcribe something else ...
I will betray you.
How else to write
about that scorching heat.
that warmed my temples
and untangling my hair
threw me into you ...?
[I talk with myself: Come on! You can do it! Make it simple. Simplify it as much as you can. That's the only way to turn it around. And look!]
You.
A sound of broken bones falling,
a stain of darkness dawning in the day.
You were carrying a kind of delusional math,
of fosses preserved from antiquity.
I.
Pissed off,
almost artificial.
I was moving elephants trying to touch
some unknown vibrations escaped in her.
You're testier than seven women.
We.
We had trampled graves and
we had exchanged humble remarks.
In my hysterical silence and
in your feverish turmoil,
you still could look at me blankly
increasing any ambivalence in me.
You have chosen a body that speaks
in dead sounds and
drunk with revenge,
you thought so naively
that this could amaze me.
You're a tomfool, your gaze irritates me.
I saw all your frustrations,
I know all your black holes,
all your failed acts.
And to be credible,
you forgot the days of the week,
you denied every strong woman
around you.
I wonder...
with what cry from you do you make me wonderful?
with what strain of heart do you lie to me?
how do you measure my dishevelled hair?
Some would say you're still alive.
I can only laugh chaotically.
You know well you've taken on other roles,
you have always pulled a face of prejudices
devoid of emotion.
Stop your torsion spring and get it to a point.
I would have only needed a few veins
to stick them in my chest.
I would have promised you it wouldn't hurt,
I would have tied you with a string.
Yeah, I know...you have always had
a passion for red-headed girls,
You sank into that stupid pattern
which never opened for you
any gate towards me.
You looked for me
among the most basic notions
and you reduced everything
to an empty symbolism
which I knew all too well.
You never really understood that I had moved my brain into my heart.
Now that I'm no longer
measuring myself
in moments with you
I am dug by the thought that
I could fill myself
with any bucket of water.
My ribs are shaking
through the pillow again,
the bed seems too bent.
All I do is hear
how nerve fields
are sleeping in me.
I see you putting me
in a glass at a gallery,
how you hang tags,
how you describe me
in clumsy words:
'Exhibit fallen
from a gallop without a saddle,
among the insipid walls
and full of lime ''.
After all, if it was for you to let me do something, you let me repeat myself.
A feather ran out of my body and
I can write
just by stretching my hand,
a need to depend on me somehow.
Today you are at a
past tense...
imperfect.
A few twitches of my body
still looking for poems
written by a man and
through the fierce wilderness
auroras fall on tanks.
My heart is moving into my brain.
The skies are no longer spinning.
The confusion disappears
in an eyelash
of waking.
The answer comes naturally.
I didn't know how to start ...
because you never let me
to finish.