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,
the confessional screen.
I can barely see you
sitting naked in the gloom.
A fly is caught in my side,
a spider in yours. I grab the mesh
with my six legs and squint in.
You are dressed in black, sweating.
I lick the bars tasting your salt.
I hand you a tiny drum.
Ask you to accompany me as I confess.
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,
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,
writhing one over the other.
Some live. Some die.
Your eyes have a fiendish fervor.
You hand me a clock that runs backwards.
You give me an hour.
Already the clock is disappearing in my hands,
images clogging the gears—legs, feelers, screams.
It’s a horrible sight.
You stand up.
Then call back
"Sing the Alleluia Chorus three times.
Bathe in blood. Give your teeth to the poor".