The tide, I hold it in my heart
which surfaces like a nod,
I'm sick of missing my little sister,
of missing my child and my swan,
a boat, that depends on
precisely what it is docked to.
From my heavens it is raining
light-years and more,
I am the Jersey phantom,
he who comes on grandstanding nights
to throw mist at you like a kiss
and gather you into his rhymes
like the three-layered net of July
where the seabass was shining alone,
the one I saw shining
on the land's fingers of sand.
Remember that sea dog
that we used to release on parole
and which, in the desert, mouths
necropolis sea wracks.
I'm sure that life is there
with it's lungs beome like flannel
when it cries about those times,
the grey-blotched cold which calls us.
I remember the nights back there
and the sprints won on the foam,
[against] those incompetent pursuers
who destroy themselves on the rocks.
Oh the angel of lost pleasures,
oh rumours of a different lifestyle,
my desires since then are nothing
but a heart-break of my loneliness.
And the devil of the conquered evenings
with his pallidnesses of recovery
and the shark of the heavens
amongst the wet mossy rocks.
Come back, green girl of the fjords,
come back, violin of the massed violins,
the horns are sounding in the harbour
to celebrate the return of their friends.
Oh the rare scent of salt flats
in the peppery heat of the fissures
when I was going, geometrizing,
my spirit in the pit of your hurt,
in the mess of your stern,
sticky in a fine dawn's sheets,
I saw an extra stained glass window,
and you green girl, my depression.
The shells set out
under the broken fluid high power projectors
play the castanet so much
that it makes Spain seem pallid.
God of granites, take pity
on their decorative purpose
when the knife comes to get
into their castanet-like appearance.
I saw what we approach,
when we sense the meeting
between the blood's shutters,
and that the corpuscles displayed
a mathematical blue
in this always restless sea
from which comes to me bit by bit
that memory of the stars.
That rumour which comes from there
under the friendly arch where I avoid the truth
these hands that fuss about me,
these cud-chewing hands that moo,
that tale follows me for a long time
like an anathematised beggar,
like the shadow that wastes its time
drawing my theorem
and under my red-haired makeup
it comes crashing like an ever-swinging door,
this noise that wakes up
in the street of dead musics.
I'm finished with the sea, finished,
on the beach the sand bleats
like sheep of eternity...
when the shepherdess sea calls me.
michealt
Mar, 24/10/2017 - 01:56
sandring 
Sarasvati 
halnurvies 
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