~

a black hole is really no more

than the discursive ground of the poet

it is enormous, such that words cannot grasp

and such that photographs do not fit to embody

it is a thing truly majestic

in it the poet throws

in sharp, quick stabs, words in a quest

to see which ones are to cut deeper the veil

of darkness’s flesh

those that make the hole bleed

are, for better or worse, gathered up

recorded, arranged and rearranged

in a galactic chaos of syntaxis

accommodated by most peculiar satellites:

marks, and lines, and scribbles, and blotches, and sketches

and the whole thing is bit by bit

chord by chord, sound by sound, pressed

into a compactness of deliberately cryptic meaning

the black whole then is not a destroyer

it does not shred the poet’s thoughts

into linealities, paperdust woven into ashen remorse

the black hole, I find, is the poet’s mirror

before which a play of utter paranoia is performed

one where the poet recites unfinished lines

and hopes that their mouth does not look

excessively weird

or, the black hole is the poet’s friend

who keenly listens to the universe of dumb ideas

birthed within the star they have for a head

the friend that always is there

to take in that little quote the poet finds impressive

and easy enough to unplagiarisingly plagiarise

or the black hole is the poet’s pet,

or the poet’s wall, or the poet’s notebook

or the poet’s phone, or the poet’s pen

or the poet’s home, or the poet’s soul

verily, I find the black whole to be

thus indefinite in character

as to exert pleasure from trying to define it

and the cosmos should truly, I grant,

look at the sky, one deep night

and count one by one the black holes there exist

count them, and thank them for existing

thank them, and count them, then, once more

[GM]


24 / Black hole (#escapril)