1.12.2010

Confessional


Come my dear deformed ones
who live after the fire,
my darlings blistered and raw,
whose eyelids have burnt off,
who sleep with open eyes.
Come you jackals of pain.
But there is a screen between us.
I can barely see you
sitting naked on your chair.
A fly is caught in my side,
a spider in yours.
I grab the mesh with my six legs
and squint through the dappled light.
You are sitting, dressed in black, sweating.
I lick the bars tasting the salt left by your brow.
I hand you a tiny drum. Ask you to accompany me
as I confess.
You weep.
I hand you a violin and ask you to play for me.
My dreams walk behind me with hollow footsteps.
There are so many echoes I cannot sleep.
You are reading a magazine.
I hand you a gun and ask you to shoot me.
I see your booth has filled with water.
You are circling mindlessly in the middle of it
awaiting my confession
but the land is miles off and no matter how I shout
you do not hear me.
Suddenly your eyes press against the screen,
their jellies oozing in through its tiny openings.
A thousand images hatch into the dim space.
Crawling over one another, some live some die.
Your eyes have a fiendish fervor.
You hand me a clock that runs backwards.
You give me an hour. AN HOUR!
Already it is disappearing in my hands,
images clogging the gears, legs, feelers, screams.
It’s a horrible sight.
You tell me to "sing the alleluia chorus three times,
bathe in blood, give my teeth to the poor"
then vanish, leaving me with this clock
disappearing in my hands.

asha