The sky is full of stone
the pure joy of stone —
I sit under these cold
mechanics of stars
where everything erodes
and everyone leaves,
a silvery web waving
beneath my ribs,
still grasping life
at its four corners,
its invisible host
still wanting —
despite all prejudice.
I come to the stone
and the stone responds,
it bends its tender arcs
over despair and loss,
fill my palms
with a quiet hunger
for a place to enter
and in which to feel —
for the soul sometimes
has bandaged angles
speech cannot heal
while touch — is all.
I lean against the stone
for there is nothing to say
there never has been —
and let it finally carry.
The city is full of people
I do not see — a child
I haven’t named
a man I never kissed.
Yet after so many years,
a stranger is walking towards me
Solider things arise.
The stony sky is mine.
Then came a time of caesuras. The lakes
the land, the soul-blue earth, listened.
Some dream, long sealed in the ice of stars,
awakened, tinkling like a crystal glass
under a knife — the dream that all men
dreamed, lying in wet grass under comets,
or thighs vacant in the back of brothels —
a lust for another planet of another hue,
redder than the Red square in Moscow.
Of course, it felt just like a joke, this false
reverie of a false country, but it covered it all,
the heat thicker than honey into which
bears dived and died, bees lost in poppies,
nightingales missing at dawn, their songs,
their small decisions, their inscrutable innocence
filling pages of books never to be read
again. And no one could say if it mattered much
or not, to live under of a birdless sky,
when there wasn’t a creature on this earth,
flapping its wings out of illustrations,
for whom one would gladly give his life.
When the word extinction flooded the news,
everyone felt the roots of his own world
move but sat on, with pictures, pictures
and nothing else, pinned on retinas like moths.
— men falling from boats or towers of steel,
selfies longing to drown in popularity.
A horror so deep only a new ritual could absorb it
— with no icons nor incense, but laughs
and porn halting the mind via telephones.
Oracles hardly depicted such terminal,
that pit of iron oxide, hung like a ruby
in the sky. Never mind — the City of Light
now drifted as a glacier in the distance,
the last trumpet — or was it the whole
Revelation ? — just a broken gutter pipe.
There are so many ways to decline
a miracle, not the jasper flying through the air,
but the air itself. Not the gold but the water.
Heaven was blue. The dream, of blood.
Honey I’m losing you, played the song on repeat.
I can feel it in the air, it’s there everywhere.
During the interval, between the sapphire
and the record, the picture and the eye,
a disk tried not to break in the sunless oceans,
— whales, linked as children in a circle,
danced the perfect dance of Ezekiel’s wheels.
Watching it roll at the surface of water,
for a moment, was enough to unfold
the lungs like newspapers in the wind.
Something in their cry pierced the bones.
It carried the cold ordinary world.
The wild memories that swallowed us all.
The silence of islands and the height of cities.
The mother’s womb and the cruel clock ticking,
the trucks unloading skinned animals
from beds of ice, and the high heels
walking down the same street at dawn.
They were, these colossuses, the sense
of pride and the sense of guilt. Sex,
passion, breath, boredom — gift.
They turned and turned indifferent to greed.
From that rusty ball, you will remember
their grey loneliness, the chant that can’t
reach you, so high up in this vertiginous
Hell. You will crave the modern landscapes,
those you prefered to ignore, the deserts
which contained all human scorn.
The shopping mall, the suburbs, the freeways,
the asylum — all with a kind of softness
in the bone. You will picture the dirty lane,
and the lover you kissed in the dark.
Everything is gone, will play the song
but not the way love is done.
And in the world below, the whales
will achieve their dance in silence
for we only forgive those we understand.
This cannot be the place, the end of the way,
I wake up in this body as in a marble quarry,
early abandoned — All warmth gone.
The world recedes in the distance,
the suburbs, the freeways,
the hand who invites me to a fuller life,
a higher lake— Nothing stays.
Except that ongoing song of flesh
pulsing in the bones, thicker than honey.
And I don’t have enough soul to dismiss
this melody; notes, sounds
filling my mouth, moving softly —
Incorporeal salvation has no meaning to me,
since lying on my back once, on the asphalt,
the earth felt like a bed of moss,
my thighs of coral — ablaze.
Why should I pretend there is another joy ?
— It’s a lie. This cannot be the place,
the end of the way. I want to wake up one
more morning, feeling the city trembling,
my lover’s hand on my belly — Everything near.
The sea of fire under the crust of the earth,
the stars and planets on top of skycrapers.
Wild, urgent, never removed. Not of anyone.
Not of anything, ever again.
Listen to me now — not ever again.
― Based on a film by Charles Pictet
And if we are to go on living,
the film of our experiments
will not run softly like a dream ―
It will have the flaws of life,
the faint sound of traffic,
the incessant blink of city light ―
And when the wind hardens
everyone will leave the table,
everyone quit the scene,
but there will be a stir
somewhere, unexpected ―
like a touch of silver
on olive leaves.
And if we are to go on parting
let it be without passion,
venom or blood.
For the verso of Red
is Loss ― a dark courtyard
death inhabits best.
And when we have enough
of dinners, negotiations, dice rolling
at tables where we always lose ―
Let’s find a greener altar,
colour of an olive grove,
a fresh almond ―
or simply a more tender eye
behind the lens.
And if we are to go on believing
that love begins with flesh
but does not end with it,
let’s sit and feel our hands
on this fabric,
as an event, almost
Let that green tablecloth,
that red ribbon flutter ―
Hope and History,
History and Hope ―
like reeds along the lake.
There’s a music box I tried to repair,
a melody playing through the red
clockwork of my heart —
There are worlds I thought
I could leave behind
that never stop sending postcards
from the past. And no matter
if the song is out of tune,
all photographs pale and torn,
they keep taking me back
to a crossroad — where everyone
has chosen the wrong path.
There are lovers broken by rules,
wedding dances stopped by wars.
There’s a woman leaving her child
for three roses on a coat of arms.
There’s a Jew tricked by a tricky star,
children gone and a mistress
crowned. Oh the trembling done
behind locked doors
leaves the equation unsolved.
I feel — suspended, I don’t know
how to grow old. Conventions
smashed like a string of pearls,
but no answer rang out, at all.
Life goes on, beautiful and strange,
I stand staring at this crossroad.
The music box turns and turns,
its love song — foreign to everyone.
Tell me, is there a flag to hold,
a desire I shall not let go —
A fire that a storm will not blow ?
Blood runs to these blue regions
of my heart, then drips unspeakably
Listen Father, I lost my hunger,
I have no need of bread
any longer — Give me a stone.
I’ll leave the glass of wine
where it is, the sweet berries,
thyme and honey on the table.
In such a wide blue place, alone,
losing time, taste and touch,
an orphan inevitably turns
into a wild cat. But I never
hoped to be so mad, so gone,
to have fought so many wars,
unsheathed so many claws.
Now I long for another song,
not for this train of thoughts broken,
not for this station. There’s a line
of cliffs, I miss, ending in a lighthouse,
a wall of rock halfway up the sky,
cleared by a summer wind.
All that happens, the sea,
the city, happens under its wing.
It’s a tender chalk to lean on,
it never fears, dooms nor
cheats, and on the skin
oh it’s softer than silk.
Listen Father, keep that sugar,
I won’t lick your hand
which never took mine.
I can only stand there
untamed. Flowers and blood
are frail — this stone
holds it all. At dawn
it rocks me close and tight
in a firm touch of light.
Locked in an alabaster room,
untouched by dawn
and untouched by noon,
years slowly cancel my flesh
degrade the dresses I wear.
— Still life is so long
and desire so strong,
like a wounded bird
I endlessly return
to what burns.
A lost indigo,
a sealed window,
that one day some hand
There was a silence
of wine and myrrh,
an absence equal
to a presence —
falling upon it,
showers of eglantines,
jasmine like beads.
No word was left
inside me, yet
the red stain
of my lipstick
on the glass
proved I had
a voice — once.
In the East,
a transparent band
of blue sky,
almost a torture,
does not resent
We were so many
with a heavy heart,
like a peculiarly
among vine and myrtle
I wished to cry.
Yet, I laughed.