Please do not answer me.Time challenges us ever since we have been speaking this language we don't understand. We, unborn, like water evaporating to prove our invisible lives, flow away through our names out of our range, beyond the edge, a mistake that will never turn into a resolution. You'll find out I never told you my real name, and you'll pull the trigger. Because I know that all the shadows that rise from you will some day fade away. Let us not speak of this anymore, it will never come back. All the time this echo has trailed back to us, has been expecting us to listen, like two deaf eternities.
2. Under the Overcast Skies of Resurrection
2.1.The cataclysm has smashed our little huts of time, and we stand on the thresholds, hesitating to decipher the wind that blows its way back through this endless tinkling and swinging of cobwebs.
2.2.The giants of oblivion carry us inside an endless memory.
2.3.We are lulled in the twin ceremony.
2.4.Let us wait where there is no beyond.
2.5.Time blows through us from birth to death feeding darkness with light.
2.6.We try to explain until we realize that nobody knows if we really happened.
2.7.And the sense of these things we discuss today changes everyday; but their sense never exceeds ours.
2.8.Somnambulism and plot reversals: we are crawling with darkness along the trail of the quicksands.
2.9.We drew our maps for fear of getting lost. Still we disappear, and still we can't stop drawing in finer and finer detail.
2.10.Most of us have already died.
2.11.We lose meaning as we try to understand. We burn till we die, like all stars. As we learn, we know less and less.
2.12.We trace back our fears to the sunset. Then a desert flower whispers the unspeakable. And we understand that the two halves of the sky revolve around us; that we are time.
2.13.Only the clocks are alive. The loneliness of their ticks grows in each of us, silent marchers of the caravan, edge of the tide.
2.14.Do we think or are we thought ?
2.15.We were told to inhabit the ruins and we took shelter under these eyelids. We touched this face like a braille book and soon discovered the writing in the light.
3. Ghosts OratorioThe loop broadens, pain melts like snow. We follow her eyes' drifting towards death, lingering in the lust of coma, dangling a few minutes until they relax in a deepened timeless color. A sand of fever stings my eyes, the slaughter is over, twisted bodies lie on the steps, the light finally returns to them, returns alone. The sound of death still tinkles in the mind. The thunder flashes over the next victim. Her amused smile can be mistaken for what we already know: the restless amnesia of the ocean trapped in the mounting noise of the overcrowded beach. Time will resume.
4. Because I Know the Answer
4.1."I am both the listener, who listens to the loud cry of the universe, and the speaker, who turns the tail and undoes the past".
4.2."I nod to the question, whispered behind the curtain in a foreign language. Each word echoes in the mist and drops, each word a stain on my life."
4.3."My two minds collapse one against the other".
4.4."I threw the rod with no bait other than myself".
4.5."Nausea of memory receding to the past. Its dark lattice of monsters is dripping a star right into my eye."
4.6."I am a maze of nameless decaying corpses."
4.7."Adrift in the cracks of memory, I observe the endless fall of the feather of an extinct bird, spinning a route of faint screams."
4.8."The wind of silence has wiped away the tears from my cheeks like dead leaves. And I am what remains."
4.9."Drunk in the hurricane, I breath the cobweb, my life's dream, each thread a reflex bleeding soft from the mirror, a silence forever sinking into depths of eternity, a shadow forever climbing foams of woollen light".
4.10."The footsteps are not behind me, but ahead. I am not eluding, but following".
4.11."Through the shining gates of chaos I enter the vast cemetery of the cosmos. Walking in a spiral from the edge to the center, I stop on each grave of a god, on each heaven."
4.12."The beam is traveling towards the target, leaving behind all that matters. It is filling a void I was supposed to inhabit."
4.13."I am sitting on the border preparing to leap - all my life I've been creeping nearer and nearer"
4.14.If you never dream you'll never die.
4.15."Unfastened, I fall back into the waiting arms of my empty grave."
4.16.You feel like a clown and they let you die.
4.17."I dive blind and breathless down in the sand of twilight struggling to recollect the last words I had uttered in the strum of the universe."
4.18."I question myself while staring down, aware of vertigo, aware of catastrophe, in the shadow of time: Am I God ?"
4.19."And I almost turn in silence to listen to myself speaking as if these meaningless words were being uttered by others".
5. Blood Tide
5.1.We, twice mirror images, bridges between our tiny islands of silence.
5.2.The long serpent of our words rattles to the moon but life is faster than any thought.
5.3.We are two ? Who are you ? You who steal half of my everything ? are you afraid of my living; or of my dying ?
Words come less and less often to the lips.
5.5.His hands lazily waving goodbye in a moon current of vertigos to the crowd of phantasms hanging from the skies over the stinking ruins of the sun.
5.6.Your eternity, twenty billion years ago, was what it is now. Mine is what yours never was.
5.7.His smile rushing feverishly away into waves of sunshine haze, like an extinguished lantern in the nightless mirror maze of the underwater ghost city, wavering from dream to dream beyond the edge of the maelstrom.
6. The Blossoming of the Leeches
6.1.Like footprints of time the roman numerals on the wall sun-dial. And the arrow melts in the target.
6.2.A sapphire tattoo is cruising the eclipse.
6.3.Swallows carve their spirals over the glittering of the dome, as they turn towards the open sea in a tide of crystals and fire.
6.4.Dancing octopuses on a midnight zeppelin bleed to death.
6.5.Dreams happen on the carved surface of an ancient coin.
6.6.The kite plunges down into the rainbow.
6.7.The iceberg recedes like a scar that is healing.
6.8.Maimed gladiators in the empty arena.
6.9.In spite of this, life, the jail with no walls, but a noise in the silence of eternity, still radiates.
7. AvalancheI sink into the stale dephts of the inscrutable world of a snail; into the innumerable flea-images that stain the mirror blood-purple; into the multitude of dark syllables flowered thousands of years ago and still haunting like bats the caverns of my mind; into the burnt fall of this age, more and more the beginning of undeceived forgetfulness; into the sparkling diaphanes of twilight; into the watery whispers of sea-moons; into waves of faint memories; into my own shadow, again and again into the tempest of my minuscule selves; into the luminous amphitheater of tidal skies (rattling cadaverous smiles scrawl fates with midnight squills); into the opulence of sudden gusts silently flitting from bell to bell; into the gigantic whimpers of chilled faggots in the boreal fire.
8. Astral SwoonThe subject of this poem is itself. Like the convulsed clutch of a drowning man. Darkness surrounds me. I am a blind man reading the Braille book of the universe; a clown, perhaps, babbling his jokes in a deserted circus; a grinning skeleton clung to the helm of a ghost vessel adrift in the hurricane. I perceive the transparence of the world changing to the light in which I perceive it. I perceive myself at the end of the trail, folded in fire, my mind decomposed into primitive thoughts, my time receding to infinite childhood. I am silent again, dumb. Where did the echoes of all my words fall ? I no longer exist. Or, maybe, I didn't exist in the first place, and that's why this poem was left unfinished.
9. BanquetThe ceiling mirror is dripping guests on the table that was set for dinner several centuries ago. Dimmer and dimmer they fade out before reaching the memory of this nightmare. Reality slowly coalesces in a bright unfocused image of this glass of wine, each little bubble of the foreground, boundless, blossoming in a universe of its own. And still shapes and shades of living bodies surround my glass, swim through my demented drowsiness like revolving gears and pulsing lights of a disintegration gadget.
10. Night DustSculptures of foam stand still over the cliffs, like obscene graffiti littered over the plaster of this vast expanding shell of moonlight. Tomorrow wet wreckage will surface as the sand dunes will be swept by the wind.
11. Missa LaicaThere is no future in the spider's web. But that is where the ants plant their kiss, in the glue, in the grip, of time. Ideas intersect meaning and bear worlds; in which men are born; men bear new ideas, and the cycle resumes, endlessly weaving multitudes of worlds together in the depths of the mind.
12. Dialogue of the Mirror Images(There are too many stories to tell, too many in the joined palms that talk for us night and day).
Every footstep can be taken at any point in any direction without changing the destination of our trip. A vision of shrills at night piercing the depths of rooms that no guest will ever leave, while we draw from the thorny strips of angst pinned to the wall a smell of obscene love, and our beings shiver, twist into the very fibre of being, of what we will shortly be reduced to be, such nonsense, that I cannot quite catch the meaning, the purpose, only the words you uttered, here and there, in the dark, the sinister jargon that rattles itself off every so often, rehearsing the longest speech of life.
(The wreckage has hit our shadows: debris, weeds, pebbles, bright and wet, gritty with sand to the hand that swims through the heap, tiny whirls of dead things that crawl along the hurricane's shell, jewels of time that grow and spin forever behind the curtain of twilight).
The enigma of our bodies in the mir- ror. Talking backwards into the past. A fistful of light rowing shorewards in the dusk. All leaves must fall. Each firefly a wake that will not dissolve. We are unable to stop the dripping of the moon. We are unable to bury the dead. Still clinging to the irrefutable ideogram of the foetus, we are autumn leaves that last.
I stand in front of your eyes, which have stormed so wildly, days and nights for many a century, still trying to decipher the word that you uttered. I have been watching our shadows hanging from the sky, fingerprints of our lives next to nothingness, sleepwalkers that balance themselves on the night's thin blood line. You bend your head over me like a budding flower before the bee. Honey drops from the corners of my eyes. The wavering filigree of your smile disappears in the motionless emptiness of the bubble whose final transparence surrounds us.
The wind bent the tall stalks and carved paths among them. We walk along those furrows, sown with hues of rainbows.
I am falling through a mirror into someone else's life. Realizing that, if there was a moon, I missed it. You exist, like nothing else does. Am I writing this poem; or merely copying it, like a monk whose life's meaning is but the series of signs he carefully duplicates over and over again?
Agony is the abracadabra of a magic flute. The crack will grow until it fills the world; the jagged blade of the lightning, the scar that will never heal, flaming needle of the compass, the thread of fear spun around the orbits of us all.
The thrill of drifting from bud to bud through clouds of light and showers of pearls in a hiss of wind, wrapped in colorful scents, a fossil receding to its past, unfocused lense of time.
A can rattles alone in a moonlight fire, the never ending echo of a dance of dying stars.
Thinly dotted feathers falling from the towers of silence, buried in the future of all things, of all people. Sun rust whirling in a lattice of dew.
Births and deaths scattered all around our breathes. You survived the wreckage, not the salvage. I shall draw dragons on the canvas of your eyes.
13. Ghost Towns
13.1.Specks of dust floating in the dense mist of rays that envelopes the ruined temple, the gigantic fossil mouth that was drained of words but is now filled with thoughts, thoughts that have been waiting for us to lend them our minds: whether lies or truths, they have been wiping our eyes and pushing towards us through the crowd of terrifying figures.
13.2.Blind figures with no names have no memories but the one collective memory which engulfes every gesture and every word. Naked, with glowing eyes, they spin along the bottom. They are breathed by nostrils that, in time, will swallow them all into the original pit.
14.... they will trample me underfoot, distortions in the mirror of time, they who went at dawn with baskets on their heads, carrying far away into the river's womb the million pieces of the golden sundial, while the winking armors of the raiders pierced through the thick vegetation of the valley and sliced the tinfoil globe of the universe they walked and walked and walked until the haze wrapped together both the runners and the hunters and still they walk, and walk, and walk, the multitudes of fugitives, the armies they will trample me underfoot, distortions in the mirror of time, they who went at dawn...
Horizons shrinking to a point. The quest is over. Chimes flooding the square, submerging the flashing crisscross of lifted swords. Wizards, jugglers and acrobats. Then pounding music, and dances, until limbs and minds collapse to sleep, and the giant turquoise is left alone again to guard the town. Moonlight: the sand shines. Desert wind. The dust rises.
14. FinaleAnd I wonder if Piero, the venereal undertaker poking about for virgin corpses in the quivering mist of a profaned tomb, if Piero, the rattling bowels of my shadow, if Piero, the dangling bat, the bat upon the beam, if Piero, the noise behind this thought, I wonder if Piero will ever die.