TEMPORAL FIX


Little by little I open my eyes in dress suit and white tie.
The office is one thing, home another, what others see
and touch, a face wandering in the garden
among tall flowers and a bit of sky

If I wrote a book called the world as I found it,
I would have to include my own body, yet in real life
a proposition is never what we want, only a picture
laid against reality, a measure we make ourselves understand.

We discover to our horror that we don't really believe
in anything at all, people seem to have only outsides.
The erotic lover and his behind do not take pleasure
in the same things. That poor body of mine suffers

an injustice which is not voluntary, but the rejection
of identity removes one method of speaking.
I have never witnessed anyone do their work as diligently
as the corpulent man, red in colour, with two faces,

heart covered in a piece of cloth, like a fire covered
by smoke or a mirror by dust. It is the man who abandons
the result of his actions, passing through many births,
yet no one exists without acting. When he turns pale

I start to cry. Some people get more of the royal
jelly than others, yet out of sixty perhaps
so many who have been to the other side
have nothing to say when they return.

It begins with a crime, the killing of old authorities,
the touch of a lover who cannot look you in the face.
If you're scared of the dark, bring a mask.
It's just too black to see that flower.