But there’s more. First, I cannot write dear. I cannot call you dear. I am too deeply, deeply — and I have never believed in. Before. But now so much less. No. So much less. Dear illusion of dear. Dear I-could-not-write. You will not mind. You do not love.
Dear body. Dear if-my-right-hand. Dear how can you love only your own soul? Dear why would you feed only one eye? Not the hand. Not the belly. How can you love the head, not skin, not the water?
You make me cry. You make me sadder than women, sadder than men, even sadder than your —No. You, and your guns. Do you even love your hands? Can you love your mind? Body dangerous. I try to call you dear. Enraged at your arms, enraged at your desire, enraged at your eyes. If I am too angry to love you — what, what will we do?
If a body meet a body. Where the body of the state falls. Or, because what not-to-be-trusted gods— refuse to fall. …twirling on the horse, blowing kisses— indefinitely into the grey future, and if this entertainment were to continue. Body politic: How can I trust you? Fall. Because, I say: blind. Because the vulture can. Because the words of my mouth. Because if my hand offend me. Because if my diseased or broken— needs no teaching. All night, only the fallen wind. A breeze that needs no visa. A country to not belong to. Because I want — not to die. Because—us— or not at all. You make me cry.
Just ahead of sleep. Soul to child-flesh on her sheet—like that frighten-me drop from— as if by falling— to reach the world. If the body meet a body. Teach me blood, and water. Every shell. Nested voices, I say, kicking open. Torn, from too much believing— cut out my swelling tongue. If I torture. If my right hand offend. Or my left. If my peace-cell be broken— let me be no human. Heartbeat. And skeleton. Please. Please. Teach me.
If some child of an un-ended time— is also my “I.” If some deviate boy of an evil-flower-mind. If savage-souled, and peace-broken. Blowing kisses—Whip-cracking boss twirling on the horse— Tireless spectators by a merciless— A tottering mount in front of— Round and round the ring on— If some frail consumptive equestrienne were— 1 Some god, I say: If no such country. If ashamed. If I choose to belong to none. Because the wind needs no passport. Wants none. Some god, I say: Don’t you know an old or a new tongue? Can’t you teach me a country that cannot lie? Bruised lips—un-sewn: what nest of voices sings in its shell in the groaning birch between thorn trees?
To be saying— if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love. 2 To be the left-hand cupped with “please” or belly, or spleen, or hope-hungry jealous of all the good I’m not —stopped. Just ahead of sleep, to child-flesh on her sheet— like that frighten-me drop from soul as if by falling— to reach the world and body Or
With so much need. With such desire.
1 Franz Kafka/ In The Gallery
2 Samuel Beckett/ Cascando