The street is sewn with my tears.It pulsates with the noise of the brilliant children.Neon nymphs scamper through the alleys and scatter light: rainbow without sky, darkness beneath every light.A tower of words - a Babel without languages - slithers through the immense air, winding to and fro behind the solitary tree.
A mold of threads and curls, plow through the pulsebeat, as a seagull pierces the wave to snatch its prey.I am here.I am not here.I remember everything.I have never seen it.I am a prayer, of no one, floating nowhere.My sight is not my own.Where can it go?
As I turn the corner,melting into the burning arms of the small central square (square without crosses, nor anyone to bear them),I see Saint Paul dressed in police uniform, standing idle by the police truck.His halo muffled by his hat, which took the shape of his dark head.Beneath his badge he had a line from one of his letters to Corinth.I could not read it for he crossed his arms, diligently.On top of his shoe-laces, dirty sea-weed cling.The mediterrenean never abandons the Fate it decrees.How he has changed since the shipwreck.No longer Roman, nor Italian.He just lives, like someone who does not know he lives.
Why do the people not recognize him?
How I enjoy having someone to love! That sweet taste of getting excited by someone different - learning about her, making up fantasies of the both of us - and time: Waits.This is where I find my passion, never in loving but dreaming of loving.And oh there are so many fantasies to create! So many hearts to imagine...I want to know them all.
There, up ahead, is Saint Publius closing up his shop for the night.How those shutters screech when they descend! What made him abandon the altar sheltered by the soft breeze of the granaries, to own a little shop of trinkets? Could he not bear, the arguing over the technicalities of his title, thus he decided to give himself a new title? Oh to be the first, but not be a pioneer.To be remembered only for what you were given! Those who love him, do so because, he is them.
Why do the people not recognize him?
Sex is the only thing she could give me, she wouldn't give it to me, so I've left her.Nothing to question, nothing to answer.I saw so many men in doomed relationships, doomed for they suffer and I decided I was not to be one of them.What manner of beast depraves something as pure as love? It is a sickness to kiss lips that bite your heart, to embrace arms that suffocate your lungs, and to look into eyes that blind your thoughts! Utter sickness and madness! Be done with it.Cast it out.Let the plague not drag on.
Finally, coming up to the small gardens, there I saw Saint Cajetan, waiting on the bus stop.I grew up with him, but he doesn't know me: we never speak.His eyes glimmering like the steel of a guillotine's blade, now look wearied.The night has done its worst.His fatigue was like Lucifer's vengeance, crawling up and down his dark skin.I never danced for him, nor sang his name: could he be grateful for my silence? I will go wait on the bus stop with him, we'll catch the same bus, get off at the same stop.But I will never speak to him.
Why am I the only one to recognize him?
There is such poetry in friendship: the smiling metaphors, laughing rhymes, heartfelt similies, quiet voltas.But really, I abuse it! I use it, hoping it is a prelude to something else.I use friends as skipping stones that will take me to the other side of the river, where golden Venus awaits, naked.How horrible! I should renounce it...but how can I?
Oh gargoyles watching me pass the black horizon: Give me sleep.
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