a name, for the failure of these clouds
for how they encircle
entomb
that nostalgia for dialogue
how the firmament failed to hold a version of me
that could accompany
or strum
I am in fact her, ---for I produced it all---
and her song was with me all these years
as I was
breastfeeding baby Goering
or as I held a spoon to miniature lips
of an infant Subramanian Swamy
How we gods, love to extend and copulate with ourselves
for the self alone has no delight
How we, gods, love to expect and antagonise
for the self alone,
has no delight
Stella now
beneath this dome,
yours is Nimrod's verse
Raphèl maí amèche zabí almi
but
by whose direction is mind aware of its objects
can it please be more
than what instructs the privileged phenotype
to vacation in Thailand
or Turkey
to appropriate surplus libido, that history has set for sale
Gods we ought to be and sanctify all rage
but by no simple tune, no ordinary rhyme
Gods, we seldom select the first beat
yet shall uphold a transcendent glee
All nonsense prevails by avoiding doubt
this nightmare too, owes its weight to
I
which unlike Bombelli's solves naught
isn't for
but retains form, memory,
all constrains that keep
and undo
 |
| Pablo Reinoso La Parole |
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