disinter

I

I’m sick with

emptiness;

excess;

an ambivalence

I can’t express,

ever; one day

some fine/blade

may sever

that vein/for me

to tell, until then

listen well if you

will.

 

II

Some…nameless one

remains: an inner eye;

living corpse, half-

hid in the

undergrowth; enemy

within, who knows

what I think, I thought

was stilled in his bed.

Do you turn

now to face that grave

fear? My bones

know there is no

end; some knot of

consciousness, a worm,

remains; a paradisal

vision; or, equivocal

figures quivering

the abstruse air of

evening.

 

III

The first Woman cursed us with shame.

Even today, children know this

ubiquity that spies them

with their flies down,

fingering fruit.  In 2 days

my little one turns 1,

untainted still, and beautiful.

I can’t begin to unpick

the abstract love, which is

immanent.

 

Lucifer too is the victim

of an older tradition;

a Promethean who lost,

ignominiously shoved

head first in the ditch;

dead to me now.

 

Evil! how is all this

possible?

Mysterious, the hatred,

the wanton infliction

or accident of pain.

 

Nietzsche lost his mind to grief;

wept, his arms around that

cloven beast whipped on a street

in Turin.

I understand this.

 

And even this is

nothing in the so-called

scheme of things ,

and the hatred,

the laboring, back-

breaking; for acclaim

or money  is vain.

 

Francis

knew this; threw his

last crust to the wind

and birds;

 

I prefer

to drag my heels,

head bowed by the weight

of a cross I can’t bear,

to lay aside.

 

It’s madness. But,

Brothers and Sisters,

are you with me?

 

4 August 2015

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