My soul has sewn over patches, where the bullet holes
used to be; like the way i would ignore heaven and hell,
to live eternally in the bars and pubs. The taverns like
a journey of the wind through your hair: Feels like the
washtub for a churchbell. But the dark medicine of religion
grows weeds around my monuments, and i do not need
to be buying shoelaces when i have nailed myself to a clock.
When the dust in my ears is closely watched, and the
Bourbon worms are not worth selling. As i walk with my
head down all the time; too critical of how i handle my soul
and its mooring rope. The fact that time shovels out the
dreamers: The idea that i took to drinking, because my
ancestors were soaking wet. They were soft like the way
you rip out nails, or the way you climb the sky to set fire
to the stars: The music there has no socks, and what difference
does it make if the flowers are broken, and their scents
travel like a hitchhiker. They spit on their thumbs and ask
you personally - Are you done with your dreaming? Are
you going to write poems like a child wakes up a father?
Like the wet hair of a newborn tiptoes without a sound
into your dreams. It puts on its clothes with a blue song,
and dresses the wound of a disgraced sky like air-conditioned
souls that stretch the lines of their web along the edges of a
sleeping corner, rolling in circles; like a string of broken afternoons.
The fact that i am crying my first tear, and it can only dream of the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.