7 Αυγ 2017

Funiculus umbilicalis.

...


I don't get what is wrong with these people.
Yesterday they buried me again for the tenth time in a row this year.
I am failing better, exactly like Beckett said only opposite.
Failing to convince them that I am still alive
every time I am swimming back amongst the living,
but they say no, no, put her back in, she is gone for good,
can't you see?
she is not even watching the news anymore
charging her mastercard
buying a television
or googling Ibiza.

Maybe it's my eyes that keep confusing them,
(the way I am keeping them off my face,
locked in this jolly secret box here)
Maybe it's the fact I haven't said yes to anything for months
Only asking why, why, why -
no affirmations,
no attempts to cut the ambivalence cord.
(They say "she is half born, half unborn;
let's decorate life with her present absence".)

Wikipedia is informing me, calmly,
with its business voice you can't say no to,
that in placental mammals,
the umbilical cord also called the navel string,
birth cord or funiculus umbilicalis,
is a conduit between the developing embryo and the placenta.
Who gives a fuck if the fetal heart pumps
deoxygenated, nutrient-depleted blood through
the umbilical arteries back to the placenta?
The adult heart pumps add to cart.

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17 Ιαν 2017

Old eyes.




...


I don't want this
this despair
of really old old eyes,
Just my old eyes back -
my "happy old year" eyes
my laugh o'clock lashes.
These eyes
are heavy
and blue
made of cotton
and led
and gunpowder,
These eyes are used
and used
and used
and used
and used
and used-

Look closer and see for yourself,
this ocean behind the pupil
an ocean twice the size of earth
(oh look, there is two whales swimming right there in the middle of-)

OK.
We are done.
Are we done?
Press undo.
I want my old eyes
I want to unsee, 
to unlook, 
to unobserve,
to unwatch,

to uncry.


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