The children bring back their hordes
I do not recall my hands
in that city I had no
hands
*
Light grey breathing exhaust fumes
Winter begins at the wrist
ends in March
Narrow amble on the sidewalk
shoving off the tiniest one
A chalk white coat
piece of January,
then a flashing streak of rose –
What is that sudden gleam?
Silk lining
no, the blood red
I did not touch her
I promise. The Acephalous
in this city have no hands.
*
Beneath the paving-stone
there is no beach, ice only
the bare madness of the straight stretch: Lose yourself
downwards onto the eggshell white, grazed
scraped kneecaps
The joints rip
my lining surges
Flocking together on the pavement
horde, survey
the sludgy mouths of the children,
gravelled gaze
A sun streak bursting out –
brilliant bowels
The sound of meat transport, wallowing
over on the side
into a mouth
onto a word
swallowing and swallowing,
the incomprehensible clogs in the throat, piles up
your stinking
mouth
Siren blue the whole shitload,
hands groping about, extending over –
twinkle little accident
now straddle this crossing
infernal blue light
In my head
eyes, taunt, blasting into this
real look
A dazzling disrupt
a mother, or a mouth –
Street, what is your name?
Hatch out the light from your hand
lustrous spittle
moi, the horde
Her lying there like modern dance
The tilted promise of her neck
searching, gust
the children are bolting, stealing upon, dashing round
twitching beats of wings
bird’s heart
fluttering in the throat
The slow smell of thawing
Why does it jerk and twist?
City, within the pale of, crypt
Throw a last, killing smile
catch the eye –
launch and expose your rose lining
extend yourself – Rose
make the penultimate warm
this roaring face
Something in long sleeves, something slithered down
turned inside out
(the diseases were translated at every frontier
the accent was uncomprehensible
pig snout, letter pain)
The skies are pressing like a fading bruise
who touches our children when they whisper
something about the mother
The sirens,
weaving their way through the mother
emergency rattle, turnout
the worst winter, the shortest day
the longest moment
Shortly you will recognize your home obliquely from above
as from an air photograph
the clouds resemble losely clenched hands |