What happens here is a tale
of madness, an endless story.
We wake with no memory
in a garden once called Eden
facing the mounts of No Longer,
the raw red anguish
of Gethsemane.
And tender is the green
and ashen are the fruits,
and only the smell, the smell of blood
is clear and warm as the air.
The wind has discolored the heart,
no one now can shed a tear
other than for oneself —
the soul is quiet as stone.
And under these closed eyes
the sun turns from orange to gold,
and the Hesperides are high,
high on color and wine,
and we live in the corner
of their mouth, kissing,
fucking, but it is the wrong taste,
the wrong shade,
there is an ache, here,
soothed by something near,
so near — we can’t see.
Barely a lash moves
in Gethsemane, barely a leaf,
and for that torpor,
for that torpor only,
no garden will be given back,
but a city, a city so bright,
no one will ever sleep —