I face the heavens but cannot breathe
So I turn to the right hand Path
where
Once, sand gathered at the head
Of the bed
from the shore a day before, where a
Dog comforted my boreal
Grief ( or
Of
Soil from
The garden of the dead)
I turn to the left hand path
Banks
Of thirst
from
rivers beneath , starving tangible dark growth
lifeless crib
rigor mortis
Face down, I avoid the ecstasy of hogties
devoid of blood pulsing
My drowned avatar
my criminal
my star flag of David
films of final breathing
this shoulder then, still knows the damage of crosses carried
that dangerous temper
the agitation of cancer, stricken
the sounds of last stations and hours
–
- to the centre then, the ancient
mortier of dirtied light and static
father of white noise
glaucoma gift for a 4K world
I
she bends her spine backwards
she in her glitter, sequined, crystal top
a limbo rock
wavering form
inverse cobra
she, with her two white men in layered suits
bank vault bodies
I chase them out of the house
( my motherlode / motherland )
“get the fuck out !”
but without the energy of rage or malice
- it’s an emptying of the house – to remain in sacred unlit spaces, untouch the debris
the cold electrical wires sticking out of plaster
maybe a ‘time from before’ exorcised
the comfort of vacancy
- (backtrack)
like a corpse on a bus is he
sits he in flesh and skeletal frame
too small for starched white shirt
blackened oversized pants
I can almost smell his
skin of wax
hair hardened formaldehyde
pale as the horse from endtime
I sense he’s an otogoya
coming back to life
dropping snake scales from our eyes
to chase away squatting spirits from the house
making space for landscapes
“washing out the womb”
IRVING PAUL PEREIRA 