Is there such a thing as the better poem?
Is there a sound to permeates my ears?
The sound of nothing
that I can’t master with words,
this sense of castration,
of an eternal wait for your pauses and alibis
to rescue me from my sinful thoughts
of kisses where lips never join, never touch.
Silence permeates my ears
and maybe the better poem is made of silence,
melody of surroundings
like the waves of the ocean,
wordless and ample.
Or maybe there isn’t such a thing
as the better poem.
Because no word can depict
the contained explosion of desire,
of flesh and bones and lacerated skin.
This blood that pours from the wound,
And a poem,
the better poem,
must be made of blood
of flesh, and bones, and lacerated skin.
And by this enormous pain foaming
from the surface of a deep cut,
touching the core of my angst,
a poem that lacks words,
a poem of wounds,
a wreck into which I dive.