Inbetween the curve of an equator
Philosophers open up a brothel,
The wind is gagged and declared a machine,
Insects clogging space are forever mute
As prehistoric sycophants dry up
And flood the ashtray with ripples of glass;
The compass is nothing but betrayal,
It's roots are chiselled just like the others —
No bowman mined for gold without a myth,
That is, until he found himself shining —
Even then there is no point to make sharp!
And we rehearse, and rehearse, until death…
Our spine rests like a sunbeam on green sand.
And the joke resumes … how did you ever
Consider such a thing to be real?
My fall was more like instantaneous
Invasions recaptured in the place where
We create fate — but how did I get there? …
Or here? — Then again, royalty were only made
To be mocked and overthrown; — continents
Have yet to be pulverised by silence,
Home is comfort, so it doesn't matter
Where I sit, or how I bleed — canyons
Only give as they fill as they erect…
Inbetween the curve of an equator
A baby's thumb rests tapping on a womb,
An echo spews out lava for cameras,
The cherub coughs up ink for his own life
Which will be forgotten by the morning,
The tunnel suffocated by Sunlight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem