The Death of a Roach
…when the last fig falls and we are pruned from light,
our golden ladies gleaned of love—
infest us with the mercy
of stone.
calisthenic tempest, kingly pain
the flowers held kisses and blossoms
crackling with lightning power against our
pinioned brain; I watch the roach
as prophets of exile drink
and break their cups.
the grasses held long and green their secrets.
now, old ladies cassocked like monks
treadmill the slow poor stairs
bumping their angry canes: solatium! solatium!
and they close themselves in shawls
as the sun rallies new buds to color,
and they think… of onions and biscuits
(beautiful day, isn’t it?)
(did you hear Father Francis? Sunday?)
the roach climbs
(the mirrors of love are broken)
blind yet begotten with life, a dedicated wraith
of pus and antennae.
I take him from his task
with a stab of a finger that wretches
like a stomach against the sick black twisted
death; no bandores here, or philosophical canvas to color
with tantamounts.
I hide him in some hasty packet and flush his ugliness away,
and above me in the mirror, consumed and
listening there:
a crevice, a demon declaring his hand:—
all about me the old ladies cackle enraged, infirm
and bleeding
violate,
lepisma,
they attack my tired guts with
canes and pins,
with scrolls and bibles,
with celebrations of
witchcraft
they maim my brain with mercy until I fall witless and ill,
shouting
shouting roominghouses and grass,
shouting apes and horses,
shouting
flowers and kisses: the insects are
suspect—
man can only destroy himself.
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40 görüntüleme
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