Back to where you refute the last stain
Of the white pearl and black monsoon,
The masking face of the moon,
Is shedding its skin, slithering onto your face,
Your face of tenacious, scouring folds
Pertaining to what lust lies behind the fingertips,
Are sleeping arachnids below your bed,
Your bed of cobwebbed, wobbling sins.
-
In front of the mirror, deceitful, chronic anhedonia
Portrays a treacherous disease that can assuage
Almost everything from fragmented oblivion to the darkest stretches
Of the ethereal fields of squirming lies and snowflake
That dissipate among the skin, of tarnished topaz and ruby
The panache in the lips lacks the eloquence of a patrician blarney
All too surreal to believe, too bizarre to exist
-
Convince me in my dream, that I am not alone,
Then I shall flabbergast you with one, unfortunate scene
Of nostalgia, that would tell you so much of one more night
Lost in the effervescent Sun of fumbling comets and feigning coronas
Ergo, I hide in the darkest pits of my own self, stacking
Among shelves like hollow bullets billowing in the impassive face
Of a labyrinthine sorrow – the impasse, delirium speaks crudely.
-
Finding among prattling tongues and ragamuffin lips
Are sculpted dunes of eviscerating promises –
Promises that are eloquently bound in the pretense of one kiss,
Immensely hideous in the tenderness of the flesh
One carnal invitation to lies, to a beguiling forest of lamentation
The caliginosity speaks of one stern accusation
That I am lonely, though you are here with your luscious flare
-
Hallowed are the vines of your grapy, prolix breath
And so that when you say: You and I are one,
And that we are never alone, then I shall declare
One more stupefying stultification – we are alone
And that you are here to fill one space, like a spec of dust
Like a tick of the clock, one heaving breath, one lunging heartbeat
But never can I fill your inner pit, your pit that clamours what
The carnal vestibule, the preposterous goblet could ever supply you
I take it that the carnal invitation to loneliness,
Is asked and answered – with askance, for us, with us.
-
And so what are you doing in this obscured carnival
Of infamous sobriety, incognito?
Juggling balls of flame, are you a lost acquaintance?
Or perhaps, yet another venture into the eyes of one stranger
Longing, yearning to be known and set into stone like magic
And incantation, ridiculed by good riddance –
You do not fill my loneliness, and therefore,
Nobody can.
-
And so, like the city buoy
Raise your glass with your arms that tower
Over the feeble body of infinitesimal faith I hold
Ever so amorous for folded hands and crucified bodies
For with every breath there is one carnal invitation
To a revelry of all foolish men who wander about desolation,
And so this I say to you, with the fortnight looming over:
We are all alone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem