|Joachim von Sandrart|
'Minerva and Saturn protect Art and Science of envy and falsehood'
Rimbaud was poet as seer
Oedipus thanks Antigone
and warms his hands
by the fire...says, now
I smell the days
and feel the nights
on my skin...
calendrical rhetorical observations
are blinded to see
therefore they bleed time
are emitted admissions
they fit to slit tits and tats
can fill a flatworm sideways
eyes to futurists
(what have you to gift me?...Charon asks liltingly)
I have mere words or so they seem
seamed music, dancing to between(s)
there is no chance, to parlay
nor dug bones, soul sewn, could latch to
there is but me, another born, with want to see
dressed in repugnant and given over to excess
I want to know where do souls go, after life, that's best...
so if by promise, you cannot find me passage here alive
then please, try me dead, for by this means, I will arrive
as stated and intended to see where the souls are hid
on the other sides of these rivers
humans stake temporary and infinity to...
and it is not that I want to know
why you're here or even what you did
it is that I need to know how the wind
wears each of us or what scent
have we to leave behind
what expression can we carve into eons
and what with may we let, someone in the future, know
why it is, at least one soul came, claw-clutched and expressed
this way home, in poem, wearing hair as hats, more or less...