“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
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.
© Javier Felix ALL RIGHTS RESERVED