Δευτέρα, 21 Ιανουαρίου 2013

Miss Feuerzeug


As the last unused bedheets are spread on the bed
The image lingers for a minute
Like a miracle explained
A deja-vu with photographic evidence.
Like your body, undressed
We strip our days to knowledge.
With all glory unsung
The present flows through our veins
Never again magical
Never again surprising
But on the contrary, expected
Demanded
Deserved.
With a disdain for words as absolute
As only memories allow
I let my fingers loose upon your skin
As surefooted and swift
As only habit can forge.
The endwords of our ritual
We've said aloud a hundred times
We've heard them spoken past a thousand
And we mourned for the loss of the singular
The unique, the high, the final missing piece.
The one in the billion, complementary and needed
Has slipped between our fingers times untold.

As the last unused bedsheets are spread on the bed
The image lingers for a minute
Like a trodden path behind my back.

Death becomes it well
For you cut deep in your scorn for fairytales.
As the last unused bedsheets are spread on the bed
I laugh at the child the years have made me become
Yearning for things unsolvable rather than bright
But death becomes me well
As do all ends.

So I let my cigarette end on my pillow
Let the fire feast on my dreams.
I have done, I have been
I have named and have been named:
Our words and our fingers
Have echoed in thoughts and slithered on faces
Of an army of ghosts and meat.
Buried deep in our silence
We keep the log of every round
With losses and gains
Stacked in the same column.
And as the bed shakes down its cinders
As the sheets turn to smoke
I let my self lay on the blaze
Invincible in my smile.

I lay there, midst the fire
Warm in my past
And safe in your present.

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