prikedelik doc #3
the colossus.
qui per la traduzione in italiano
i shall never get you put together
entirely
pieced, gluted, and properly jointed.
mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
proceed from your great lips.
it's worse than a barnyard.
perhaps you consider yourself
an oracle,
muothpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
thirty years now i have labored
to dredge the silt from your throat.
i am none the wiser.
scaling little ladders with
gluepots and pails of lysol
i crawl like an ant in mourning
over the weedy acres of your brow
to mend the immense skull-plates and clear
the bald, white tumuli of yours eyes.
a blue sky out of the oresteia
arches above us. o father, all by yourself
you are pithy and historical as the roman forum.
i open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
your fluted and acanthine hair are littered
in their old anarchy to the
orizon-line.
it would take more than a lightning-stroke
to create such a ruin.
nights, i squat in the cornucopia
of your left ear, out of the wind,
counting the red stars and
those of plum-color.
the sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
my hours are married to shadow.
no longer do i listen for the scrape of a keel
on the blank stones of the landing.
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