The plenitude
Of the drunken
Stars at night
Enthralls me.
In this gathering
Of the stars,
A plethora
Of constellations
Disembark
From the galaxies
And onto
Skin,
Sin
And
Flesh
Until
Scraped,
Usurped and
Defiled.
What did the stars do
To my innocent frame?
I will never forgive
The stars.
These tiny enigmas
Hoisted upon
The gardens
Of the abyss
Are perilous.
Such inner turmoil
The stars hold -
An ambivalent
Charade of colors -
Changing
One by
One
Until a star-gazer
Is blinded.
These stars
Are liars.
No matter
What form these
Stars take:
Gulls,
Apples,
Pupils, sockets,
Muses, dames,
Thingamajigs that twinkle,
Orbs,
Daisies, tulips,
A portrait of two people
Making love,
Or a saturnine
Fold of gardens -
I still abhor
These stars -
Lying, cold
Bodies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem