No one comes anymore
to your house of song.
The naked woman rides her melting horses
through the breeze.
The pianola harps on her naked tune,
the sea-horses dreaming
the poisoned allegro,
the angels of light drown in the fall.
Ritenuto éphémère,
as the symphony falls in a river of light
and spins in cobwebbed corridors
where the Blue Nude hangs.
La Femme au Cheval,
the woman in my ballad of dreams
still paints herself.
She lifts a beat and waxes her fall
into the apocalypse.
She glides along the concerto, naked
with Euclid’s feet.
-2-
No one comes anymore
to your house of song.
Its long corridors once bustled
with the shadow of every beat,
and meditations on rock
let the silence fall with ersatz feet.
The rhapsody now hangs low
by the beak of the night.
And the symphony, insane,
is a black-crowned emperor of the night,
that slowly spreads its wings.
Ghost-walking in B-minor,
along the fog-lit alleys of the night,
airports, hotel rooms, cafes,
and lounges filled with Matisse, Cézanne, Degas;
where did we not meet?
We carried everywhere your house of song.
From the dead mouth of emptiness
comes the rupture.
What could I not do to watch
that baroque flesh implode into Malhar,
as entangled limbs,
speechless in the horror of beauty
quiver in an unfinished calm?
-3-
No one comes anymore
to your house of song.
Only the four horsemen descend in a trance
and watch the symphony burn.
The naked woman chokes with light
her horses of the breeze.
What did we forget to do
when we pretended to live
in your house of song?
The rhapsody now hangs low
by the beak of the night.
She glides naked along the concerto
into the river of light
with Euclid’s feet;
poisoned allegro
the angels of light drown in the fall.
You never asked me if the world is real
in your house of song.
when the miracles flowed
and the nights were long.
The horsemen came on a soft December dawn
and burnt down your house of song.
And as the legend goes,
the paintings came alive
when they bombed the symphony.
Mozart stole your heart
and Matisse crushed your soul.
As the Malhar spread,
and the shadows on the corpses danced,
Degas picked your bones.
Library of Mirrors 