Well, I have just caught myself in this ranting spree,
fiery spurs spurring my flanks into nothing…
or you just talking through me… or whatever might be…
but was it you who made me love her
so powerfully, stubbornly and vainly?
The world spins and makes me digress,
was it you who made me fail to confess my own ludicrousness
and kept me chattering about you, her and them in this stark dark?
How many viruses are tossed in this dark? Me the first or the last?
How many rhymes bide their own time? Me in their crimes?
I can’t forget her rejection and then her silence,
while the world spins, indifferent, is that you who
make me sense any indifference as malevolence?
Who, after her, make me fear to ask anyone for anything
afraid of getting only a sea of silence and denial?
As if only waiting for my own trial?
Silence perpetually gnaws…it was meditation once,
was it Eden flowing before it was snatched away by this gnawing?
Yours is the bees’ strewing, a fiery luring and musing.
But is this not the knot in whatever throat, the bitter core,
that has caused the awry of all wars, the lore’s gore?
Is that you behind the spreading force in the words “never, nothing”?
Or “no”, the foe and woe.
I have assisted a dying that seemed eternal because we, you know,
most of the time, keep hoping there could be a stop to the dying
and we sense we are eternally fighting to keep all this going
to stay, against all odds, so badly and bloody alive…thronging,
so we keep the dying going, that bitter, digging
weary consummation despite any despite…
we are life’s exhumation….
but is that you, after all, behind the “ness” in hopelessness?
You who keep me making me spill this sort of puns with no thrill
in my lingering mess?
You, who like her, let me rant, in my own puddles, never saying a word?
The heart of silence simply sounds at one with what is unredeemable,
silence, a gallivanting maze in which everything fades in its own haze.
Is it yours this fire, this burning belly in its own mire,
who, makes me feel, after all, only hypocrisy in consoling?
No truce with the furies. No truce with regrets.
That becomes nostalgia, helped by a little wine, when you give respite.
To soon resume again screwing your screws with their chocking hues.
Is it you through the furies’ wombs who brandish life as an opened wound?
Ok, we know if we know we have never known anything.
But words just thrive.
Have you been killing me or keeping me alive?