Lacrimosa II: a suicide
I throw myself into freefall.
Pressed against those smudged glass frames,
The shattering of thin ice,
Only now when
February snow falls as ashes.
I threw myself into freefall,
And here beyond all things,
We are unstoppable.
Our bodies falling as morning dew
Mine as dry riverstone
I pray that you catch on the wind
I pray that you catch on the winds.
And I'd throw myself there into freefall,
Swirling within my panoply of broken glass,
Coming back to earth as a light rain.
les malencontreuxAmid the yellowed flowers there,
I dream of pursuit and of folly;
Pursuing all that was worth pursuing.
I stood there, once.
I chose to love, a little.
And lying in this bed, periwinkle summer skies
Framing them all we had to offer;
This dreamer of the dreams worth dreaming,
But would they cradle me, now?
Would they dare comfort me with their warmth?
When all things are written in yellowed pages,
Pasted up behind these smudged glass frames?
And what of dreams, like glacier sheets,
And overcome with all I have to offer?
Pursuer, creator!- I dare dream of beauty here.
And forever, I chased your blue-green light,
Behind and around those bowered,
I dreamed again of you, there,
Behind that smudged glass door.
But here we are again, les malencontreux:
The wild ones, dreaming once of Versaille.
And here we are again, my friend,
We unfortunate ones;
Standing there, stolen, still,
Stigmata I and III
And all these are fictions too,
In rolls of film, tuberculosis gray.
We recount and recall as if we were madmen,
Locked away in dresser drawers and folio bins,
Our black ink (-stained fingers) running down
these pale passages-
Waistcoats deep in the black soil,
Stroking our egos and straining our necks
To fashion our tongues as red neckties,
All to the rhythm of the doldrums.
In this city of poets and artisans,
I was but a fishmonger:
Selling cheek and tail from the daily catch,
Pulling my pushcart by and down the alleyways;
Caught against the current of the hungry crowd.
And there among the refuse I'd lay
In black sheets of the corner club
Writing line after line of my heroin heaven,
Never mending, forever crafting,
Always creating in pages and in cages,
For I want so much to be Zorro,
But everyone knows my face.
And here in this nation of harlequins and minstrels,