Captain Jack is Dead



Short of actually, the ending begins and you are unable to say the simplest. Believing in objects is deranged and beyond the historical cycle you find yourself chewing on the roots of stars that tremor in metalline faith. Are you listening, you say with a smile made of yarn sown so tight it would stay and I think I hear you hearing me. Look. All, all, the total sum of all is soaring up. Time has born now the seventh dream and one day the snake of sunshine will shed its skin and the wind will carry the feather that broke the duck's back right in front of your feet. It will be yours. I will count to ten.One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

'And is it not the messenger who is always killed?'


'Chills you to the bone.'

I would much rather be shapeless. The meandered labyrinth of lines is irritating. I cannot follow my own self. Lengthen the line and increase the leading. Yes, I am crawling between the grey scrolls of my brain, pushed off the balcony of reason. Our tragedy is a function of altruism, don't you think. Captain Jack is dead, or how else shall I understand sequences of innocence and blood? This lovely world in its most various features, if you catch my rhubarb, is not unlike a scent of velvet milled in a vulcano. Impossible to miss. Madness is just a protective screen against the reason which marks you in your segment. A manifest of tortured pleasures. You smile and sigh, you alchemize them all. Two hearts, one travelling fast around another's light pulse. Tarred or untarred, feathered or unfeathered. Oh well, it is always more than this and less than that. More or less. Yes. I found a feather, but where shall I put it?
Balance. Balance. The godess of dream is the moon. A blue beam falling right across my face. You must have been sleeping, I guess.  Take away the blanket, I say, my toes are naked. Although I've straightened the shoes under my bed my feet are twisted.
Is it far to go?
But now come on! Let's make a monster together, with a fire coloured pumpkin, partly unravelled fishing nets, hands full of mud and dirty straw. Yes. Yes! Or a shining angel, sparkling in the night, radiating warmth and light. It shall sing then with showered rain, yes, but you said that already. Many many times. Yes, my friend. Twice it sang your song!
I heard the song, not once, not twice but three, four, five, many times. I heard the song but it always faded as soon as the tune got hold of myself. And I stood listening among the shadows cast further from the warmth of their twins, creeping expectantly towards a union, then falling back to earth.
I tore off my mask and tossed it over to you, but you wouldn't catch it. It was a dead face, you knew, and you threw it away and it shattered to pieces. I was free. As for you, you felt more comfortable with your own mask which was softer, more rubbery and thus impossible to break.
I wanted to drink your energy and you wanted to keep it and you were right. The implosion of language to the standstill of dust covered my tongue and my papers with luminous powdered words. I tried to swallow, to sweep them away but couldn't. So I forgot.
Well, by now I just accepted the fact to catch fleeting sounds of the song every now and then. Whether I hear its sweet tune or not, I accepted to live within it. This acceptance gives me strength. Far beyond all considerations I too sing the song and I don't give a shit if anybody listens. I long to be heard! No, no paradox in this. But maybe there is. I may yet come to it. Life is so full of questions, as you say. And answers, mind you. If anybody can put those together.
I am sheding my skin in the pale moonlight to expose my naked self to the velvet night. Like warm bedsheets left behind and forgotten, I am throwing off the crumbled dreams of time; words fall into line then in love with the song and I am just learning to awake with tears. And I... and I... and I will lie still in this silver puddle as if being hit by a flash or an echoe; the lachrymal refrain will continue across moonlit dust and years. Here it comes, my pallid longing, strong as the wild abundant rose. And I will unroll the greenish buds, dressing them in florid scrawls as I toss the petals of the sun that fall into the cycle of a crawling moon.
Oh,and the waters of that precious dreams dip through my fingers as I drink from the tranquil pond of time. Across this pool a song may fall when breath comes with a cry in the realm of shades.
It is almost daybreak.
Bathing in the warm milk of anti-knowledge I give to you the smile that sleeps beneath my fragile verses. I hear a song, once, twice, a thousand times like a radiant eternal flower, and listening I will find nothing but on its silken lips the tenderness of my life.

Captain Jack is dead, but I've said that before. Close my mouth with the night so I stay quiet. Thank you. Over.