Is not written for the cabals
of academics.
It doesn’t seek patronage.
It isn’t read at meetings
for sycophants.
My poetry is not a wedge.
It is not written to seduce
or
to butter saints up.
A sponsored tart
my poetry is not.
My poetry
is written for the cross-bow of instinct,
to rupture heads.
It is written in amphibian chaos,
in the waters of the brain.
It is written in nailed condemnations
on internal crucifixes.
It is born of betrayals.
Written in an epileptic fit
is my poetry,
with coal and brimstone.
Crammed into germs it is,
written with a cactus thorn,
written with the ink-blood
of insurgence.
In the cavities of the gums of the dead
poetry is written.
It is written without holy water.
It rises from a bottomless reservoir.
It is writen in hell.
In cancer wards it is written
and it coagulates instead of a pulverised
lung
or lacerated organs.
It is written in the moments of thrombosis.
It is written when spiders
scourge my eyes
through nights of vulgar testimony.
It mocks precepts
my vagrant poetry,
shorn of a will.
It is writtten before suicide.
Translated by Patricia Gatt