SOLITUDE 57 Poem by Fiston Mwanza Mujila

die Poesie der Verzweiflung or the vociferations of an empty body
. . . I seek the debris of my body strewn across the beaches of despair, left leg existing only on paper, belly and underbelly in disarray, hands stinking of the merchandise and my barks not even reaching the ankles of this sky deprived of electricity, meaning that I cheat life which grips me by the jaw, meaning that I serve as backdrop to my garbage-bag fate, frog fate, toad fate, kipelekese fate, tchanga medesu fate . . .

. . . perhaps (in hope of some kind of salvation) I should whimper and re-whimper in D-minor like my grandma's last goat: buum, buum, buum . . .
. . . and to think there is no euthanasia for the recalcitrant and drunkards of my species! and to think there will not be two successive floods to bear me away in my drool, meaning that old Noah will not return, that seven pairs of all purebred animals, male and female, will not be led into the Ark once more, which means that the waters of the Zaire river, ebale ezanga mokuwa, will no longer lap at our luxurious desires and assorted debaucheries in the starry nights of the red-light districts of Kinshasa and Amsterdam . . .

. . . and meanwhile, without gods and without pets, bereft of the spice of life, my centipede-body loafs about the very beaches of despair, while on the back cover: a dozen of my own teeth forcibly ripped out by lemurs and other scavengers of this sky deprived of fuel oil . . .

. . . I can only bleat like Tshela, the last goat of my grandma Julienne mua Mwanza, like Tshela in a mezzo-soprano key: buum, buum, buum . . .