06.12.2010

Crakle, rock made of salt, she is dying in my arms, he was a crippled criminal,one who set up a Carnival just for the sake of bursting out in laughter. At the Carnival there were a thousand pagegirls, but he, man who is toothless, did not bite the freshest of breads, which was my poetry. He sneered like a girl on a tin throne and yelled, “here’s the white doll that has neither veins nor blood”, instead I was bleeding out in a convertible that wasn’t moving, and some heartbreaking minstrels sang the Magnificat for me.
I was a virgin while I rose in the sky or so I thought, so light I felt, and the destination of my journey reunited with the soul that it had lost, he did not understand that I loved the women but not the men, bastard race, who did not understand that before they left me, I had been left by a thousand angels who had protected me on earth and so had eaten me before, but after they had searched into my lights, which were invisible on the earth.
When I found myself dead, it was already too late, and I looked at my statuesque body, still, in boiling hot ice, no one ever knew my secret. Everyone thought that I was an odd woman, that I bewitched men, but no one knew that I was a poet who had never published a book.