Thing

If you could get out of your own light
for three minutes
and accept the burning words,
the implausible darkness
we all hide and hold,
you would forgive
my postmodern sexuality
and sunlit mind.

i am an articulated sound
travelling fast, an obscure alternative
desintegrating all mathematical symbols
you ride so tragically well.
two plus one is zero and
we both know how fearful
figures are as we avoid syllables
and the possible loosing of
our skin from our muscles
and truths.

we are two brutes swallowing
holes, our aging dreams,
our (in)visibility before
the night.
cook for me, will you?
what kind of man does that?
cook your heart and
serve me.
let me eat your power
and stupid, naive light.
i am this.

your sanctity doesn't
make sense to me.
yes, smoke life,
smoke your fears.
i am in awe:
the grass is so greener
there.
you and your fragile prayers
to a god i can't understand.
you kneeling down,
glorifying me like scared altar boy
again.
(shhhhh...)

your rusty halo, your cross,
your perennial world.

i am sorry if i inhabit
an unfeeling poem.
i am this.

karla bardanza