σ.
by keeping a copy of him
on my bedpost. I had thought
that this way, having it near my
head, I’d transfigure him
into my dreams,
but now I can’t even remember ‘em.
Perhaps the threefour hours
of insomniac sleep doesn’t gather
as much cells and dust as to liquefy
the dreams, still I were to recall
anything… anything at all!
They are hypocrites — these dreams,
these surrealists
(I made Lorca mundane,
ironic to his movement that aims
to surprise) hypocrites —
with no reason behind them.
They are the traumatized mass,
refugees escaping the pain of reality,
who would rather please the eyes,
their shells with frail aesthetes
than feed the soul.
That is why I slowed down writing
poetry in the hope that something
meaningful will strike to base my
momentary shimmers upon,
and then that will be something
genuine… something breathing!
So I’d flip through the pages
of Lorca again, sniff that
maniac smell, place it back there
and go to sleep, or at least try.
