To Be or Not To Be
The Wolf at the Door
The Tale of the Dragon and the Rogue
A Second Advent?
The Devil Does Not Plough or Delve
A Curled Up Man Homo in se curvatus
A Winter Tale
The Early Cocks – Get Slain

but should probably be harnessed nonetheless
in the yoke invisible he uses to lead us

since from Lightbringer he turned into Nobody – as if
he stepped on his tail with his own hoof –

so we could together thrust the coulter in the buried gold
with which they deceive and entice us day after day

and amid the shard of hoary hodgepodge
to shine once again the ray – reminder of our cross

or is that the spark from the accidentally hit rock
that still needs to be dug out with joint effort

and be stuck in one piece as a cornerstone
of an edifice or at least as a support, if not an obstacle

for someone to trip over, startle and become aware –
while one the other side Nameless sticks out his tongue

that has just sold us a handful less than what was measured
on the scale that measures falsely with the hoaxing zero

in order to rob us of our better good
of Nature that they speciously mended for us.

We have all turned our back on you, Lord
hiding in your Face from the Legion of the Nameless

or inside in the empty shadow, in a carrion instead of a soul
under the rags from the scarecrow with a borrowed attire

from the Other that lurks from the outside
or from the Deuce thrust deeper inside

should he come for a stroll – freedom
to be a toll, doom and execution…

Is the end a goal
or is the goal an end?

The undiscovered New Land under eternal ice –
o, how many more bottoms lay there beneath the lies!

Once the dye has been cast – was this a fortuitous stroke? –
that we were both born as oxen in a yoke.

2018-08-21T17:22:49+00:00 March 5th, 2012|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 82|0 Comments