With my whole insomnia, I’m in love with you…
Oh, how our love is murderous,
The dearer something is to us
The surer are we to destroy it
In passion’s savage blindness!
I have realized that the homeland of creation lies in the future; thence wafts the wind from the gods of the word.
musing on a sodden brain
like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch,
I’ll taunt with a bloody morsel of heart
and satiate my insolent, caustic contempt.
No gray hairs streak my soul,
no grandfatherly fondness there!
I shake the world with the might of my voice,
You play your love on a fiddle,
and the crude club their love on a drum.
But you cannot turn yourselves inside out,
like me, and be just bare lips!
Come and be lessoned—
prim officiates of the angelic league,
lisping in drawing-room cambric.
You, too, who leaf your lips like a cook
turns the pages of a cookery book.
If you wish,
I shall rage on raw meat;
or, as the sky changes its hue,
if you wish,
I shall grow irreproachably tender:
not a man, but a cloud in trousers!
I have a bird of paradise.
At dawn upon a cypress tree
She sits alone against the skies,
But sings no more by day to me.
Her back is of celestial blue,
Her head deep purple, and upon
Her wings the dust of golden hue
Reflects the brightness of the dawn.
But when the earth is slumbering
And evening mists begin to roll,
She rises on her bough to sing
So sweetly, sweetly to my soul,
That soon the burden of my pain
I fain forget before her lay,
And in my heart each tender strain
Comes as a faithful friend to stay.
Often her song so dear to me
I have in stormy weather heard:
Always of hope her song to me,
The song of my celestial bird.
Myths do not flow through the pipes of history; they change and splinter, they contrast and refute one another. The similar turns out to be dissimilar.
We sit in the mud my friend and reach for the stars