Birds fly around your legs and you count them
for eternity, but I can’t figure out if you are above
or below, if you’re calling me or not, or if you’re just
seducing me with that barbed wire bra.
Positively, with nothing sacred in the vicinity
your walk is perfect because it’s void of course.
My new eyesight is the balls of riddles.
Therein swarm decrepit days,
black dogs, candelabras and psalms.
While I am repeating incessantly:
”My other name is Limbo,
my other name is Limbo…”
Words and poems fly around your head.
I read them in a monotonous voice.
With eyes blindfolded by barbed wire:
”Violet is the devil’s colour.
God is all honey and lead
and I am your mad namesake.
You remain my vulnerable jazz.
On the other side of the storm.”