who wants - tanka
painting by Christian Schloe who wants to bring down the door to my garden of buried silence, paid for with shame and lost pride
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The Salt of my Tongue
The Salt of my Tongue I've known you since then, stagnant water, since you left me. Now, I'll have to seek refuge in other eyes. I am the valve you wear down, the man you loath. Your body and my body speak the love they occupy, the love that restores us unabridged to what we are. We travel with open skin, without calm, blindly pointing the way to the rotten, the ones who still long to live. I always dig you out, my bone, my ghost under the pillow, among men kissing under poplars, and women who need to penetrate each other (a hopeless cause) to feel happy. I'll be there, chased, a bat flapping in each of my wrists, then you'll know we'll never be so hidden we forget each other.
Spoken from the highest branch of my glory
Spoken from the highest branch of my glory Who wants to bring down the door where I buried my silence, a silence I paid for with shame and the daily castration of pride and love, a love that is nothing but the dirty side of a fallen tree?