Wednesday, 24 July 2013

I have ripped from my womb all of your love; I have emptied myself of you.
I have finished off all the possible landscapes in a single drink:
Whiskey + Levonorgestrel = Roads that will not be.

I am clean.
The blood that trickles down my legs is a torrent of remains
of another useless promise:
I will love you forever/ I will stay with you/ only for you would I go this far.

Summers will sprout; life unfolded and green in the garden.
My blood and your life turned into grass, without feeling any pain or vertigo.
And sunrises as home. And belonging to the land.

What better destination for so much love than nonexistence,
that cannot be destroyed.
How beautiful nonexistence,
not flowers, not kisses;

those turn into to ashes.

Sweet flesh is only sweet in spring,
afterwards it walks dizzy and sorrowful.
Failed.
Dragging all the lost
and muddying all the won. 
(How could we not get high.
How if we couldn't survive,
hidden in this flesh, 
which we cannot rid ourselves of,
not by fucking hard, or scratching,
or biting.)

I have swept away any possibility that you grow in me, 
because I am stupid.
I only know about square roots and about pain.

The rest of the things that populate me are the product of my infinite fear.
I don't want to add you to my infinite; you would disappear.
You would be foreign to me.

You would get lost in so much shit.

So I hasten to the desolation, 
calm and drunk.
Bleeding fugitive life
in the middle of an African night.
Let the hyena come and drink me.
Let the beasts come,
let them come. 





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