Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Life

It’s not you.
It happens every time.
It isn’t your piercing, pulsating cock,
or your blood-soaked, tender heart.
or your hands –
so definitely coarse and hard,
or your eyes – naked,
desperate for the cover of night.
It is life that passes through
like a needle of light
and leaves one ripped, rippled,
plastered into immortality.

It’s not you. I’ve seen them before,
almost all –
the little, primitive Hamlets
scraping their brains against the wall
inside which they buried their heart.
The strapping bulls full of bravado
of having spilled blood and other people’s tears,
I’ve seen them disintegrate into sleep
where their faces forgetting them betray fear.
It’s not you.
You see, it’s not you.
It’s Life that you fear.

It happens sometimes
when you least expect
suddenly and forever.
like a fisherman pierces
fish lip with his hook
life pierces you
and lets you, the fish,
back into the water
so that you spill your blood
into its indifference
and teach it
to speak of love.

and no one asks
for your permission
or your accord.
it happens suddenly, I said.
and hence your fear.

two people fall asleep
in a dark room
after a night of living
below the waist
a morning ray of light
squeezes through
upon the bottles
cigarette butts
other waste
the man opens an eye
sees the body next to him
hears its breath
his heart sinks
he becomes less and less
a din in his ears is a thousand hornets
this life’s too heavy or too light .
but never right.
he wants oblivion.
he wants the flight.
he wants the night.
closes his eyes
but sees the gusts , the clots of scarlet.
outside the crow is pacing to and fro
like some prince hamlet

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