childhood chalet
Milk thing
On my first travel abroad I was alone against the strong Divorced aunt´s row of vegetables Lettuce, seeds, tomatoes, farm, Liquids from soya or plants No drugs there – no medication No balance, eat what your body Really needs, Which is Holy Health – I was a skeleton there Measuring pure water with Soya milk, my waist with a ribbon Scrawny, uglier than Sissi And no cats licking the milk Pouring from my lips – no nothing Indecent out of my throat A crumb of natural bread A farm a little too far away My aunt´s bike to reach this Reach Heaven, mystical milk I should drink – And she had been told by mother Doctors to feed me fine, fats, proteins Of milk, and yoghourt, very easy to swallow
No tubes, hoses to my stomac, Just “normal food” But she was so unnatural with children Her son died – pointing fingers “I´ll get the fucking milk for her” And i was writing my paper about Rimbaud, Edie Sedgwick, Plath With empty stomac , Yet souled, passionate, Inspired by the gods above, Words they wrote so fluently on my Diary of sorts. And drawings explaining Rimbaud´s rib Against his flesh And walking, walking too much Too long abroad – I could hardly breath And walk at the same time, Just eat, sit and write the paper And my own thin fingers And ankles i walked so proud to the beach. I kept writing in a trance, lying on the sand Wrapped with towels, eccentric sun Perfect geometries, the farm, the Glory, The dance of Edie falling flat from the ceiling Like her dead child, in memoriam –
I should fight against mother´s milk Dancing in the summer fire, over the dunes And warm waters. Writing, possessed, starving yet denying it. Running abroad, further and further Until exhaustion, until Graduation I excelled dancing, dancing silent performance – Then the ambulance The hospitals and hoses and noses And stomacs everywhere Command, signatures, your name, your body name, Drink normal milk with a pill to sleep And balance, weight, size, pair of shoes Off and tickling to make me smile And swallow that thick liquid And sleep everything off, Unsouled, paper done i excelled, i excelled Doubting about my sanity And my aunt´s son, dead too soon And my pointing finger –
Deself
Jobless, you said you quit your job As i quit mine. But for different reasons. I´ve driven far away from that house I have this white room, do you remember Tracey Moffat? Do
you remember blow-jobs?
I don´t. That´s my past. I´m feeling so far away from all that jazz. I paint murals. Drunk. Until i get Intoxicated with the smell of paint. Even if it´s harmless. I hurt.
I am damaged.
Cold May. Iris didn´t blossom yet. I remember when i was someone else. I don´t know what´s wrong now, weak, Maybe it´s alright. The white walls are impossible spaces.
I can´t bear the murals. All canvases against the wall Except yours, you and your daughter Sister, pregnant. Here all books start. For everything is finishing This chalet, my wedding tent, the bride, the bride, Old witch and i hate cats, I hate having a car, i hate it all. The blank, the white square of this wall Is not depression, or schizophrenic architecture. I´m just overwhelmed, and too sensitive, Too silly. O i´ve been so naïve But i needed it. I spy my Romanian neighbours- they do speak And play all the summer, over a mountain Of sand, and a plastic swimming-pool. They have brown hair, blue eyes. They are tanned . I have freckles. Or something worse. Last night I couldn´t walk, i lied on the road With my black coat. The retarded staff went out for a coffee, Numb eyes and faces=i belonged to them! Pride of some kind. My hair was long and i was self-erotized. A tornado lifted my skull, installed more ideas, Wedged between synapses, this man I know for ages. He´s changed. And me too. And the distance. And my silence. I write words. I say Hm. Him. I need an end to everything.
This mural. Blue and Whitesnow – A tornado, a tube, grey and smokey. Me, naked. Parents with a hat And a scarf. I quit my job! Running naked except for My flesh-color shorts. Drunk, they said, Welcome home – So i spy our neighbours to take photographs Of Eastern Europe, because i know, i know – My sister gave me the digital camera To save my life, and my soul. I don´t know where i´m heading to. Philosophy, a know where so much is hidden. A plot. A line on the floor to follow. I just believe in my neck for vampires. Thinking, thinking too much for too long. Deself, white walls. There´s been an end or will be. I need whiteness, assedness, words even crud. Black cushions performing Books, red threads. Red hair. She´s fine She´s fine She´s fine Because i can paint murals, With too much intensity. But god, she´s blessed!