While My Mother
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When my mother was giving birth to me, an eagle was circling round— the Eagle was circling round, carrying under the belly the corpse of baudelaire. From there, precisely from there, He was not yelling for help, but no verse poems. And I—written till then with oval shape— From the abyss of this world, I was listening in and crying out the title of any principle. Ay, were saying his shouts, only one country of the poems exists everywhere a country of nobody—made thinner in your breath made thinner till the cutting air becomes. Take me, Aquila, take me also, I was crying, with the sweet honey of life inwards babbling... Do not leave me alone, I was shouting with the voice of the nest, of the shot bird-nest. Take me out of here, I was silencing, it is the country of the steps and not of the flying. No,the Eagle was screaming, you are a solitary and have nobody to die for. Ow ! my baby, killed by the hares of the death, I, with the feather made by myself, I wrote him with invented letters. Tear him out of me, eagle, was yelling my mother from underneath of her still red talons. Bring to me his pieces of meat, my mother was crying, throwing his heart into the horizons. Injured as in the first verse was my mother— The Mother of all visionary prisoners. No, now is the turn of Baudelaire only. He was the single one in the row of the verses. He was the single one in the row of the moles. That slot decided the eagle, this pilgrimage, While my mother was giving birth to me.
St. Dan-Marius © 2009
When my mother was giving birth to me, an eagle was circling round— the Eagle was circling round, carrying under the belly the corpse of baudelaire. From there, precisely from there, He was not yelling for help, but no verse poems. And I—written till then with oval shape— From the abyss of this world, I was listening in and crying out the title of any principle. Ay, were saying his shouts, only one country of the poems exists everywhere a country of nobody—made thinner in your breath made thinner till the cutting air becomes. Take me, Aquila, take me also, I was crying, with the sweet honey of life inwards babbling... Do not leave me alone, I was shouting with the voice of the nest, of the shot bird-nest. Take me out of here, I was silencing, it is the country of the steps and not of the flying. No,the Eagle was screaming, you are a solitary and have nobody to die for. Ow ! my baby, killed by the hares of the death, I, with the feather made by myself, I wrote him with invented letters. Tear him out of me, eagle, was yelling my mother from underneath of her still red talons. Bring to me his pieces of meat, my mother was crying, throwing his heart into the horizons. Injured as in the first verse was my mother— The Mother of all visionary prisoners. No, now is the turn of Baudelaire only. He was the single one in the row of the verses. He was the single one in the row of the moles. That slot decided the eagle, this pilgrimage, While my mother was giving birth to me.
St. Dan-Marius © 2009
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