Provivat

The hearts beat within their containments, a rhythm everlasting; a chant that chases away every last bit of dark.

The bulbs shatter continuously, only darkness casting; will the symbols of ink scare the creature off?

The hand that watches does not fear to lose sight, so bathe yourself in light and blood, and chase it away.

Bury me under Eden's tree, within a little box, within a tasty apple, where the dark can't reach, bury me.

Bury me under the measure-tree, accompanied by spiders and rot, where fire can't reach, bury me.

Lucky soldiers, lucky! Make your trenches your home, make the Motherland proud. Run, run, ignore the bodies' stenches, in your little costumes, screaming loud and belching out songs, our anthem for a doomed youth. Lucky, lucky boys, who does not want to be ransom for their Motherland, amidst gurgling noise?

Sing with me, sing with war! As he plays the pipes so gleefully, desperate for glory, thirsty to win. Dance through his maze as he plays on his pipe a taunting story. Follow the Piper, lucky soldiers, follow him down to your graves! I hear the pipes, Lucky, I hear them so clearly, so hollow, I hear him play his pipes.

Hear his vocals, hear his song, his cries! His screams, everlasting, soon to be mirrored, as the lucky one dies! His shrieks feel like cutting me, and all his cries are made without breath. The bags of the pipes collapsing into itself, as it sings a hymn like death.

I can feel you moving beneath my skin. Past my muscles and bones, going deep within.

I can feel you moving beneath my skin. Crawling through self-made tunnel, from deep within.

I can feel you moving just beneath my hide. You made your home neatly, when my body died.

I get to know your habits, by the soul of your trash, but the eyes of the dolls pierce through mine instead. Faces without bodies, like with concrete clashed: people all different, keeping only their head.

I learn about your life, by the soul of your trash. Do you pray every day, as God haunts your day? Latin words on paper, the edges made into ash. Do you pray every day just to throw your faith away?

I recognize your house, by the soul of your trash, though perhaps the garbage is not from your stash. Countless amounts of teeth, fallen through the bags: a disgusting scene will be remembered and forever nags.

Fulgor repente deorsum incidit ex altiora et contingit teneram signare libri pellem. Odore est potente et est mihi vertigo firma, velut si in abysso defigere mi oculos.

Dádhātu asmábhyam cákṣas yát ná vidyā́ma. Dádhātu asmábhyam gandhám yám ná grayā́ma. Dádhātu asmábhyam rávam ná huvema.

Fulgor repente deorsum incidit ex altiora et contingit teneram signare viri pellem. Odore est potente et est mihi vertigo firma. Caelum oculos defigit in me.

Translation: Out of the heights lightning reached down and touches upon the skin of a book and leaves its mark. The scent is strong, dizziness. It's like I'm staring into an abyss.

Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call.

From a distance I watch the person. From a distance I watch through the glass. From a distance I question his sanity but I say nothing at class.

From a distance I watch like an outlaw. From a distance I watch the light. From a distance I watch in awe as he grabs some paper to bite.

From a distance I watch the table. From a distance I watch the patterns. From a distance I question my sanity but expect no crazy turns.

From a distance I stare at the window. From a distance I notice the arm. From a distance I stand and process and call the police in a panic.

What do we do when we're fast asleep? When the sun has gone under, when the night creeps in, when the dark grows deep.

You're awoken by cold, the cage of the key. You're bothered by my moaning, but how can't you see?

I am cold, Joshua. Open the casket and let me feel the rain again. Let me breathe. Let me out.

What do we do when we're fast asleep? Do you not hear my cries? Drown me out with your songs?

Can I have a cigarette?

A person swimming in darkness, chased away by torchlight. Its voice an even melody, its form far out of sight.

Can I have a cigarette?

Neither the ember of Marlboro Red, nor the bait of a predator allow me to see the thing before me as it beckons one to come closer.

Can I have a cigarette?

One two three four one two three four One two three four five six seven eight

Music moves through me, dancing, following to the beat, rhythm pulsing, melody halting when pain shows its face again.

I take the Devil in my arms and take another pil. "Let me dance with you", so I dance alongside him.

One two three four one two three four One two three four five six seven eight

A waltz in the night, dreamy and pretty. The notes appear to me like a divine epiphany. Pain again, stiffness returns, another pill.

The Devil tries to buy my soul, but there isn't a lot to see. "A curse bestowed upon me at birth," I tell him. "A chronic punishment done onto my body."

One two three four Five six seven eight

Is it a punishment of a former life? A lottery I happened to lose? Misfortune after misfortune, a prison of flesh and bone, blood and hormone.

One two three four

The dance stops. The spotlights fall. Only I remain on the stage. The stain doesn't go at the third pill. Nor at the fourth. Nor at the fifth.

Feathers fall as the finch flies, approaching the ground with soft chirps. His little wing twitches, the wind refusing refugee. At least it got to live for a bit.

From one paw to another, the cat switches again and again, but the pain remains in her paws and back. At least it doesn't scratch anymore.

Over the ground it crawls, two legs broken off as she seeks sanctuary. One of her front legs is gone, probably somewhere far. At least it has six legs left.

My hatred by the grief.

My tears can be found at the bottom of the bottle, the pleas for a thief's relief.

I can be sweet, I can be mean.

A gentleman one second, a beggar the next.

But always a father, either with glad or with guilt.

I may laugh and cheer, I may scream and cry.

I may tell you I love you, I may tell you you're not mine.

I may seem happy to you then, to be healing, to be fine.

But the drink is calling to me, and I cannot decline.

I'll switch quickly to a father

to a monster

to myself.

I'll seem inconsistent to you and to be in need of help.

I know I cannot drink his death away, I know it won't bring him home.

But someone has to be punished for it, for as long as he has no tomb.

I don't know who I am. The bottle defines me now.

I may not need it one morning, and beg for it another.

I've been undefined for many years: what am I, if not a father?

With the metal blade of her bloody scythe, she reaps the harvest in the darkened ground, silently pondering, a grim smile on her face, she flinches at every slicing sound made by the tool and its fortunate victim.

She smiles at the wheats, her successful seeds, the stories of endless pages. She grimaces at the crops left to live too long, surrounded by nothing but soil, the last to age of their own generation.

She whists at the failures, the crops to never live: the crops failed by Mother Earth, killed despite her gifts. They're still in the ground, and she'll still have to deliver. She did everything right, followed the lists, and yet she killed what was yet to be born.

From the seeds she gained from success, more harvest shall be made, taking their place. To the elder wheat, old and withered, she will show mercy, and finally her face.

The sleep, the sleep, I long for the sleep. For the ability to dream about something other than screams, than cold, than crying, than wounds, than darkness. Dark. Dark. It's so dark. I don't want to close my eyes. I don't want to lose my life.

I bump shoulders with a stranger, feeling frustration alone. Am I taking in this much space? Or am I swerving on the road?

Oh, you sweet humanity, I envy your mortal fatality, disgusted by moral naivety, as I wear your loosened skin.

As you hold my broken hand, do you smell my deadly scent? Do you notice how I'm deteriorating right under your touch? As you compliment my eyes, do you say there's life inside? Or do you realize that I'm a fraud?

Oh, you neat humanity, I claim no similarity, while you say to be just like me, do you see what I'm within?

Walking in the skin of the other kind, wishing to too steal your mind. Is it evil to say I want to be like you, and no longer pretend? Would you allow me to take, would you allow me to break, the fragments of your soul, for me to own?

Oh, you freed humanity, I embrace insanity, as I desire your inanity, to be what i've once been.

I've lived for hundreds of years, always harmonizing with your tears, but never feeling what it's like to truly be one of you. I'm the corspse in the living room, the shadow on the full moon, but I'll never be a person independent of your view.

Oh, you sweet humanity, when will you accept a monstrosity? As I try to sing your melody, my rotten disguise falls off.

The purposeless wandering through the hills of old, accompanied by nature as he carries through the cold; a lonely life to live, endlessly haunting the mounts.

Notice the tree, moving in the distance? The earth moving under the sounding footsteps? The constant ticking of his cane, an eternal melody?