To Mayakovski

And then the fire

To stare at your necklace

And admire

Those shadows on your face

And then the sudden urge

Of those yellow crumpled leaves

To join the grieving dirge

The day forgets, the night forgives…..

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

Desires and that sad geometry – faded, oblong

Times. Shapes. Me. You. Past.

The totem-poles and the mist – all where I belong

Song of life. Everything. Silent. Like a child’s corpse

Winter’s harsh, and where moments flutter to death

Bullet-holes, blood-stains – where my shadow morphs

into a butterfly – a butterfly! a sad song, a mad faith…..

Oh it’s a religion! – they say

I guess they’re happier today

You’ve told me that story time and again

And now it’s my turn to gift you my pain…..

Singular stories, plural memories –

Well, my love, that’s all that there is !

That’s all there is, that’s all there is, oh, that’s all there is !

Poisoned by unknown kisses, slaughtered by ill-famed glories….

Stories, Glories, Memories…..

And then, that cold senile descent

Following the footsteps of some forgotten saint

Into the moth eaten breast of love and fear

I’ll be there…. I’ll be there…Yes, I will be there…..