White dreams of Sisyphus we taste them at daybreak
we taste them like lubricants we gulp without tongue
we taste and we taste as his knuckles fall out.
Midday today he sleeps and he prays
he prays on all fours grey eyes to his knees
he drinks from greased cartridges his boulder is black.
White dreams of Sisyphus they drip a thin trail
they shrink and elongate sporting pagan mischief
we dream and we pray our feet are so blue.
Sisyphus breathes as he pulls out his tongue
his breath is full of ants his nostrils catch fire
he drinks from his bladder he rolls without eyes.
Black dreams of Sisyphus we taste them at night
we taste them near roses and we taste them near mountains
we taste and we taste
we taste them like partridges our tongues are so pure:
Up the mountain he dives he recognizes the stench of vertigo
he polishes his boulder it harbors ants it is vibrant
he prays and gathers syllables he writes for truth and heresy
he looks up at the sky and the stars are all dead.
Your poem has left me
in sisyphylactic shock !
Mr. Poetry tells me
thats what I want.
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Well then I’m content! this poem is inspired by Death Fugue by Paul Celan–check that out if you want some real shock!
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Will do
After that …
if my heart is still beating
I’d have to tell it to be still.
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