Voltas
Floris Kersemakers
The Parting Glass
Already over. The supper
With last night’s cigarette,
Locked eyes bright as wine,
In billiard ball blackness,
Already over, and now
That the future has its
Boot on my throat again,
I can say, “God, what
Abundance we had!”
Elegy
They buried their hearts like
Others might palm a coin and said
“We’ll grow quieter things in its place.”
Soon, stalks of glass
Curved toward the cataract sun,
But oh! What wind learned to hum
In their empty chests!
Dialectic
The devil pecked at flesh.
It is said he cannot make,
Only imitate. On God’s
Creatures, a scab opened.
“Let there be a pitchfork
And a peasant to drive it home!”
And the peasant snarled:
“This is God to you?”
The devil pecked at flesh.
Voltas
Floris Kersemakers
The Parting Glass
Already over. The supper
With last night’s cigarette,
Locked eyes bright as wine,
In billiard ball blackness,
Already over, and now
That the future has its
Boot on my throat again,
I can say, “God, what
Abundance we had!”
Elegy
They buried their hearts like
Others might palm a coin and said
“We’ll grow quieter things in its place.”
Soon, stalks of glass
Curved toward the cataract sun,
But oh! What wind learned to hum
In their empty chests!
Dialectic
The devil pecked at flesh.
It is said he cannot make,
Only imitate. On God’s
Creatures, a scab opened.
“Let there be a pitchfork
And a peasant to drive it home!”
And the peasant snarled:
“This is God to you?”
The devil pecked at flesh.
Voltas
Floris Kersemakers
The Parting Glass
Already over. The supper
With last night’s cigarette,
Locked eyes bright as wine,
In billiard ball blackness,
Already over, and now
That the future has its
Boot on my throat again,
I can say, “God, what
Abundance we had!”
Elegy
They buried their hearts like
Others might palm a coin and said
“We’ll grow quieter things in its place.”
Soon, stalks of glass
Curved toward the cataract sun,
But oh! What wind learned to hum
In their empty chests!
Dialectic
The devil pecked at flesh.
It is said he cannot make,
Only imitate. On God’s
Creatures, a scab opened.
“Let there be a pitchfork
And a peasant to drive it home!”
And the peasant snarled:
“This is God to you?”
The devil pecked at flesh.
Ecris l'éloge de ce qui te traverse la tête: contact@theneighborr.com