It must be the future where
in a deranged technological vision
I see her first cigarette, smoke
overflowing, eyes of perception peer
toward the doors
appearing as though they are closing.
Even if they were open, she would
not see me. How I feel? Nothing,
nothing, I’d rather not speak.
Like Monica Vitta in L’eclisse
the little caress of the wind
on her gallow-bangs; I hang
too by a tickling strand of her hair.
“I get it now. It used to be called poetry.
They think it holds secrets,
but there’s nothing in it really.”
Yeah, well, there’s nothing in beauty,
either! Or to it. If there is,
I should know it is only there temporarily
and always seen fleeing, tied to a string,
hating to talk, only able to mutter-drone:
“Je ne sais pas. Je ne comprends pas."
"I cannot speak any language.”
What purpose is caution
in the impossible assassination attempt
finding oneself caught in the substance of
the Greek labyrinth, the machine?
“We are happiness and that
is where we are heading.”
