Joined Faces

Joined Faces

Next Time Turn Your Back on Them
The Pleasure of Disappearing
Close At Hand
Happy Meat
Invisible Man
Midnight Sun
Such Is the Age

That god protects his flock. Another god protects
something else. It is nice to belong to somebody,
to be loved, to be a piece of running meat, simply
to be: to leave the empty yellow placenta on the old
sod, as if you were leaving a ball between two stones
after a play, and to be a sacred sheep among other
sacred sheep, and just run off, run off stupidly, not
knowing that all those who have inhaled the smell of

the womb from which the lamb has just gone out will
die from the fever. They will die? So what? The entire
island will sunk in time under the weight of a thousand
years of flow without ebb. The world will finally reach
the bottom line and there would luckily never be another
shore emerging from the sea to receive our messages
in the bottle; crude messages devoid of any secret:
hunks of happy meat in store for the years of hunger.

2018-08-21T17:22:56+00:00 October 12th, 2009|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 67-68|0 Comments