If you ask me who I am, if you wanted to know my identity, stand in front of the mirror on the third moon of the third year of the fourth solar eclipse and shout your name until the image in the glass is destroyed.
If you were this fucking being who is reptilian or satyr, I might not be able to look at your face in the glass for more than five seconds.
If you were this me, you would have a scar on your face, a facial paralysis and who knows if you were Castor or Pollux, if you were alive or dead tomorrow.
If they tell you to stay away, that I'm a damn dipsomaniac and also an inveterate sodomite, you won't believe it, will you? But if they tell you that Penelope was frolicking in the stables of Odysseus with each and every one of the suitors, that she was weaving and unweaving... to extend the stay of so many sweaty bodies that made her scream and wallow on the shit of the beasts. Poor king of Ithaca thinking of his love, even if in the meantime he kissed Calypso's sex.
If they tell you that Bacchus himself fell asleep on the pink breasts of the hero's wife, bathed with pramnium, you will have to imagine everything with details and signs.
Every night I dream that I am a begonia, I wake up among screams, corpses and jump from the dream and there you are, in this universe, in the next, in the one beyond... and I jump from infinity... a street... two women... jump... blood-flesh-peel on the wall... jump from the dream, from the dream, from... a man who now runs, who escapes but who has fired the murder weapon... don't worry we will move time backwards... and the flesh forms again and the bullet comes out of it and rests in the gun and retains the gunpowder that has jumped into space and stripped the flower. I open my eyes, I am still alive.
If you want to continue interrogating me, you will have to look inside yourself, you will have to ask the Zephyr for the whereabouts of this libidinous and driven being, you will have to imprison Proteus again and wait for him to take the forms he wants to take and then look at those blue, rabid eyes, those hands almost with scales, the bad smell of fish, crabs, oysters; but you will not be able to talk to him. Your dirty mouth will refuse to utter a word. You know why? Because you will discover that you and I are the same thing.
..............
I opened the diary and began a series of fabulations. I am Prometheus in chains. I no longer have viscera, the plague will fall on men. The eagle yearning for pleasure.
I want to jump, sure that these books by dint of reading them is not the only thing I can remember.
I am Orion, the sacred serpent. The man who has to hide from himself, who can barely save his soul.
Today the nurse made you take new pills. It looks like you're not going to get better, then I'll have to leave you. I'm going to break the schedule, they can't find out the destruction is coming back.
DIES IRAE
When Hermes arrived you were dead. When she appeared the rope was tight around your neck, the eyes out of orbit, the flies and the stench unbearable.
It was silence and darkness. She discovered the letters on the wall.
It was the dance of oblivion. He ran his tongue through the grimy letters. He wanted to retain all the memory of the dead man, to savor his spirit.
Then, only the eyes in search of answers.
I am Hades.
(Please undress: I need your body)
