A Perfect Circle

My day in endless loop,
I pretend, at least,
that there are tomorrows
loaded in a cosmic gun,
that go off with a bang and a bright sun.
You see,
there’s so much I should be doing,
and outside a world
to love and reject,
to take out on summer walks,
to fight with in evening streets,
and forgive in shadows of tenderness,
presses up against my window,
and peers in.
But I will lie here
in the thickening moods of myself,
while the day is lost to the sky,
while the knots of my love untie,
and the birds of the dusk rise and fall.
I will lie here on this floor,
in a room smeared with gold,
and cultivate stillness,
as a rebellion against the promises I’ve kept,
and the hours that march us all
to scaffolds of life.

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Night Poem XXIII

Night of my ingrate tongue,
I want it all,
I want the sky to stop my lungs.

Do you remember how
I demanded everything impossible from you, night?
I sat upon your voluptuous cushions
like an indolent vizier.

I swallowed the whimpers of a thousand adulterers,
I demanded the towers of my oldest enemies,
and sent for the harpist, the lyre.
And before long I had sucked the marrow
from all the stars.

And you just looked at me, and grinned,
you, night of my ingrate tongue.
And instead of kingdoms, continents,
dawns, eternities,
I had discovered the loneliness that is love’s core.

Night Poem XXII

Night of my nameless grief,
I mourn the death of my child,
the girl who was never born.

She had long, devilish curls
and a song for every shadow.
Her piercing eyes
conquered my frayed and shaggy sorrows.

The child I loved was not her mother’s
was not my own.
She was never born.

She fled like all unspoken things
when I left and shacked up with
that bitch, solitude.

Night of my nameless child,
I mourn the death of my grief,
the one who was never here.

There is an infinite ache on my shoulders
where she sits,
hot hands clutching my ears.

Night Poem XX

I afflict you with a mutinous night,
I brand you with it’s terrible star.

You, so well put together and kept like a tower,
see how what you were recoils in terror
from your face of besieged pleasures.

I give you my primitive loam.
You shed your name, your eyes.

I reveal my swift skin
that loves the continents of your young body.
You sense a loss of homeland.

I want you to realize, my darling,
what this mutinous night is for,
exhaust this blue wick of sadness.

I want you to cherish
the extent of our desolation,

while you and I are nothing more than
forehead, breast and nape,
entwined in a void of love.

Night Poem XVII

Who can resist the night,
disobey her giant’s arms?
See how she dims their fierce lives,
for her dark palms are cribs,
and in them lie, in equal count,
lizards and women.

They accept this,
the soft erasure of their finite span,
and call it sleep.
Given a name, sleep becomes part
of the logical momentum of our
feverish accumulations.

But sometimes one, quite inexplicably,
yet filled with strange expectation,
refuses to close his eyes,
and waits up into the night’s deep realm.

And he discovers in her deserted streets,
her rustling orchards,
an amplified existence,
weird noises that echo
the weirdness of his own soul.

What the boys and girls bestowed and
named with songs and rumours,
the night assiduously removes.
What he used to call bird cries,
could now be wind, could be colours.

What once was wakefulness
is now pure tension,
the promised vibration of his fear and longing.
And the day bestows, and the night effaces.

And he walks on through her deserted streets,
out of language, out of landscape,
until his name has no meaning,
and is only a chord struck on the night’s enormous bell.

Night Poem XV

I turn my back and laugh
at the corpse of the day
with a knife in his back,
a smile on his face.
Around him,

the eunuchs of my memory
slumped and lifeless;
they tried to pin the deed on me.
I have no time for these stragglers,

their parrot-like recriminations
that keep me here
in the sun’s dead temples.
There are thunderstorms,

horizon devouring winds,
that will forgive me this violence;
they ready me for a pure and
uncompromising shore.

It was necessary to become
the self’s inexorable assassin,
to put these enemies of my purpose to rest.
On the other side,

I will be essential dust
in no man’s night.

Night Poem XIV

I don’t want this voice of day
to follow me into the night.
I want a cabin in a clearing
beneath the broken river of stars,
far from love.
I am exhausted by my failed plans,
and the grandiosity of my youth,
my shadow like a wet and miserable dog.
In a clearing by a cabin
deep in the mountains,
there is a hole, deep and wide,
where I will bury the weight of this body.
And then I will give the stone my name
and toss it into the broken river.
And I will ply the bandit’s trade
with the outlawed night,
and like a stolen heart,
I will never return.