luni, 1 martie 2010

The chaperone

The laddish gait the cigarette flaunted in the beginning
Dissolves in silence,
Imminent orange reduces it to bleach deformity
And then to sticky powders of grey,
Turning the O-shaped wonder of ashtray in a sense of eerie.
I'm lying scattered on the couch beside it
The phone cord captures the uneven motions of my thumbs
Converting them in Doric demands;
And so I have to teach myself the hide and seek
The sole back door for blood flow
Throughout this treaty for grandeur.
My walls are gnawed by rabid colors,
Bare diaphragm for Bedouin legends
Of eyeballs sneaking
Battles ending in suicides flaring upon them
Just as the sun is turned off by my aptitude for fearing...
I don't quite know where this sequence began
All I can see is my afflicted body
Dying for some translation of its nightmares;
And then
A foreign voice slips mildly in my head
Sheer clairvoyance, rooted beneath relentless centuries of granite
In eyebrows untrimmed
Proverbs turn up to spot each grin of my annoying folly,
Hoping to send them all to boarding school.
And while I hear the gentle utterance on the spirit of my visions
Draining like gracious sand from my black telephone
I'm undressed and asleep;
How odd that she should come upon my nightmares
And peel their shrouds off while I'm dormant,
How grim her haughty logic should be a limb of dreaming...
The cord entwines my hands
And I am floating somewhere gluey, equivocal,
Between colors defined,
Maybe behind the retina of blind;
I'm shunning every trick beyond the diction of salvation,
Yes, I am sad to say
I've been past scalpels and Gesundheit for some time now.

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