An Ode to My Ego

And now I shall write the poetry
of dreary solitudes and windshaken
twilights

For the windowpanes are singing
the song of the drowning man
in death- whispers

For the leaves are shed,
and the sinuous tree is naked
in its faithless belief

For the keys of the piano
hide wounds of mortal love
and wrap the agony up
in the feigned ecstacy of harmony

For the silent machineguns are singing
the song of the lifeless mannequin
with the rhythmic silence
of the stone-drunk corridors
in echoes of lost words
meant to be spoken everafter

For I have found out that the fire
purifies my words by turning them
into ashes and smoke

For I have been deaf and mute
since the time time was born

For my naked fingers dance
with the drumbeats of the
soundless carnival hanging
from the cocktail waves
of the mocking-bird’s plume

For the nightingale becomes silent
after singing out once

For I am tired, tired, chasing
parched mirages, cracked images
and blue lights

For I have been waiting in vain
for the wind to erode these
cold dead rocks away

For the eyes of dead fishes
swim around the alter of
my dreamless quintessence
and the currents meet
under the seven-sea-waters

For my tears have forsaken me
and I am left with this…this
vast desert where I have been
ordained to raise a garden
of the first Green

And hence, my friends, I lay down
my wreath of cactus flowers
at the feet of the trembling despair
of the approaching evanscence
of the three infallible hands
of my wallclock

It’s half past four in the morning