Cruci-Fiction

                                                             “Metaphysicians dream                                                                between the legs                                                             of a feminine universe                                                            like roaches feeding                                                           on slices of grape fruit                                                         inside the eyes of seedless skulls.”                                                        

  Anonymous troubadour   XIII c. A.D

 

Q: Are forgotten names, names also?

Yes they are

gold scarabs crawling on slaked lime.

 

Gold leafed, the brain hangs from a cross of clay

crowned with leaves of dry farewells;

in the medulla oblongata a picture

of her, the one that sent

electric shock waves

across the spine.

The cortex is stained

by heat of  blinking fluorescent tubes.

In the niche the brain rests its final hour

in a black angel’s chapel

with green murky light.

Like a 10,000 year old

gray child it tries to leap, but can’t,

only describes what it has seen:

Objects, worn away

whistling like migraines

inside toothless mouths:

hungered spoons, fire hisses

poplar rocketchairs,  sun of moths.

Simple hours, rusty hours, calmed hours.

It counts eye slashes of shadows,

fingers of frogs,

stomachs of cows, worms

that build their houses in roots of trees.

Crosses out months and days

in a regressive count before the end.

 

“In the land of the heartless, brain is king”

reads an inscription on top of the cross

The meaning of pain is only graspable

on the red border

that trembles like a dry root coming out

of the cerebellum.

Clock’s hundred dots are nails clustered

in the brain aging, embedded with sand.

keeping track of the oblivious time

that interweaves

one and a thousand nights of insomnia

with a riddle of imagination: “the future” as humans call it.

 

Q: Do words forget about us?

Yes, as they leave us cold

in our elapsed dreams of slashed placenta

and porcelain breaking at our bare feet.

 

The failure of lexis runs yellow into thalamus’s veins,

choking with a forgotten name, only a smell of cooked meat

it can recall.

And the recurrent dream,

orbiting the flight of a seagull,

its beak between index and epilogue, silver wings

brush away the “yes and no”.

 

The soul ripens its white fruits filled with red juice,

and a spitball of blood

falls from the gallows of the axis mundi

onto open maiden’s hands.

 

The fluid  sticks to her fingers

accustomed to fiddle strings

and then she caresses the brain,

praying to its dragon-headed ghosts.

 

Q: Where are the names when the earth shrieks?

In the head full of signs

which falls into the sand

and buries the tips of arrow-head-thoughts,

whispering blows of sanguine dust

onto the equations written on blackboards of smoke.

 

© Javi Felix ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

 

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