My Oldest Enemy

I was low last night.
I don’t know why.
The words would not come
To form a night I wanted to sleep in.

So I stared at a blank wall
And watched it become
Only wall,
It loved nothing.

I rushed out into the night
And found only a street,
Not death,
Not the echo of compassion,

Not even a dismal hedgehog
Nuzzling the mane of the wounded earth.
I put on my coat,
Pockets filled with used up solitude,
And walked and walked.

I don’t know what I wanted,
A voice, a breast, a crime,
The outbreak of a new war.
I was looking for the source of my ache,

In the silent doors
And the shuttered windows,
In the gardens with their flowers
Closed like the fists of women.

I was low,
And there was no origin,
No starting point of my sadness,
There was no woman to blame,
No wrong, no mistake.

There was only this vast night,
Night of dogs,
Night of flowers,
Filled with the destruction of voices,

Night that I could not sleep in,
Like the bed of my oldest enemy.

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Night Poem XIX

Night of desolation,
you reduce me to this,
husk of a crippled light.
I was a man,
and man is a beast of the day,
filled out like a coat without substance.

I was a man,
and man is a word, no more than a whimper,
in your dark amphitheater.
Why do you strip me of everything,
save these two ancient aches, death and love?

Alone by your silent lake,
pure amplifier of my id,
I fear only death, its totemic heartbeat,
its beckoning festivals.

Alone in your infinite vault,
I remember only lost loves,
the luxuriant spider of a vengeful heart,
the torrid, teasing skin of sudden memory.

Night, you destroyer of my sunlit facades,
I am remade with every dark hour,
the perfected image of your
adamantine agonies.

Night Poem III

The night was a disobeyed memory,
and an animal of exquisite loss.

The day concealed burned love,
the ravaged architecture of my chest.

In the day I could imagine a
a breeze of human statues,

and words that connected me
to my own feet.

But the night was a disobeyed flute,
and I wanted to lie with it,

intently, alone,
and it held me in a dark music,

and poured me into an infinite sadness,
a memory of exquisite loss.

Night Poem I

The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.

The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.

I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.

But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.

The Wires

I do not know how the others can take it.
Every day, the sky that pretends to return,
the awful houses that hurl deathly flowers to the pavement,
the things that outlive us,

the poles and the wires that were already here long before us,
that glower on every street corner
like grandfathers disapproving of our fashion.

I do not know how they put up with
smiles on girls, dynasties of red lipstick sinking beneath parking lots,
rusted trolleys silently leading tramps
down dingy lanes that want only to die from an assault of lice,

the brains of rats that go off like grenades in fashionable cafes,
and of course the birds,
the pigeons that reek of ammonia, watching us,
while we pretend not to notice an offspring of dust
that collects behind our genitals and ruins our best laid plans.

We, who pretend to know equations of infinity,
perfect roses, poems of love and heroic laughter.
But the heart of the matter is this:
we live in the worn-out grooves that dead tycoons,

hideous philanthropists, and insects of lust once left for us.
There are dogs that play on a wreckage of beach
with a new owner every day.
There are couples that follow each other off the same old piers,
into the same green sea, that is neither sad nor alive,

and a sky that returns and returns and returns.
I do not know how the others tolerate
these corners piled with assassinated leaves.

Spring Day

A warm wind of copulation
disrobes itself in the trees.
Days of the frenzied sun
show me a shadow of guitars.

A silent blood
courses through the streets,
filling the flanks of the men
and the breasts of the dead,
with a scent of watermelons.
To taste this overflow of flesh,
reminds me of the death of insects.

A cloud of copulation parts the valley,
where a wounded town lies,
soaked in a music of vagrants.
The pines there are an unreachable breath,
a loosening of spring,
a sadness in our necessary seed.

Midday strokes the thighs
of all the girls,
and brings a memory of thirst.

Honey

I suppose I should forget you now,
like the honey forgets
the labour of the long dead bees
to become somewhere else a sweetness,
a treacle for the tongue of the sky.
The days we’ve burned in the urn of the wind,
the infinitely lost errands
that arrived in a storm of silence.
We’ll forget these two
tending their passionate hours,
as if hours have no departure,
as if lives don’t slowly form their own echoes.
Terminating seeds grow in the core of everything.
Only the honey remains,
sweet and sad,
after a thousand years.