Sea of Cold

There were tombs overspreaded with red felt, there were fluorescent headstones, there were brain-pans huge as worlds,

there were mirages, will o'the wisps between the mausoleums, there were mausoleums of ice like marble, there were inscriptions, signs,

indecipherable premonitions,

messages of passion from the living to the dead; on the other hand death is a poor business, it chills your bowels and mind, regard with affection remains stuck to your brain like guilt and they don't answer,

they don't lament the material part you goad them to, the muscle and fat that doesn't burn them, the death rattles the living carry from desire to the void; it was then when we disguised silence, when we aligned silence like a woman, hanging verdant beads from her teats and belly for a like reason she glowed in the dark;

one couldn't continue advancing [i]or[/i] part of to the other your imagination, Admiral,

fish were raining above the Kingdom of Death, further away, to the southern

the sea was becoming white and unsullied a wilderness of ice without light; then we cloaked ourselves with fear that was growing like haze

little ghosts trailed each other in the shadows, creaks, whisper; lows palpitations, the cemetery was made of muscle and fat the whole cemetery an organic beating, we grop each other for verification in the dark; we were finally miles from your imagination, infected, real, perfect

we were far away from your magnificent imagination.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Sep/Oct 1997

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