The Ashes of the Dead
I am only six minutes away from your decaying opulence, breathing crystal breaths of golddeath. Our freedom was the currency with which we purchased pleasure, our lemongrass whoredom from whence faceless worms poke their head up to stare at the moon while drowning in the rain. Life has left this body abandoned in the alleyway in the same manner as an exhibitionist who, upon amorous impulse, leaves his clothing forsaken in the street.
Our gaze into the sun has been lifelong, and our blindness is our sole inspiration. Those were the days when we drew blood willingly, because we could not resist the erotic suggestiveness of the void. A horse is greedily lapping water from a stream where the villagers have just scattered the ashes of the dead, where the forgotten rustle the tree leaves like the windsong of historical violence. In the beginning was the word, and then man’s ears went deaf, his tongue mute.
Time is harvesting his crops for the next generation’s mythology. Oh Miserere, oh Dios, oh nights of stillness and bloodlessness. Oh night of flowering spring, loving and itching. You cripple me with the weight of heaven, loving my lifeless body like a sumptuous banquet, devouring my lifeless body like a submissive and suppliant virgin.
For all of us were deflowered by the world’s brutality. Raped and spat on on a bed of artillery shells, each one a blank memorial for a member of the silent dead, no longer made cold by the blanket of snow, no longer burned by the midday sun.
I want you so, the marrow in my bones dance a death waltz. I want you so, my blood is pounding furiously at an aging dam where maintenance has been neglected. I want you so, that my heart throbs in unison to the decaying metropolis. I want you so, the stars mutilate us with their brilliance. I want you so, that the worms convert our apathy into life. Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus…
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