Nocturnal contact

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"Things of the immediate future"



(Sophocles, Antigone)

Who knows you Moon? Six days now and my anguished heart beats with her lunar phase: there's no signal, but a huge Y in the night sky; enigmatic sign in perfect delineation, in harmonious connection. I see it, I'm beholding that wide sky of the Dante Alighieri's Hell. I see it.


There's a desperation so ethereal, a radiance so dark, a bright of blue glass, northern sky which was southern...now...


Like the Moon's rotation is in feminine connection with her menstruum's cycle, there is a mysterious environment of distant ardencies enfolded in this structure.
A halo of mystique/with something of revealing...the smell of the dusk mixes the sanguine with the metallic, the lupine with the unseen, the ardent with the icy.
The water calls the water and her blood calls her blood: red water; I am just a watcher of the skies (this sublunar coldness and this crying).


The Moon, every time redder, and redder seems to reflect her blood out of any decency...luscious reflex of glitter that comes into my room on through the window, turning the place into an insomniac cabinet, whirling with my cigarette's smoke, like in slow, cosmic copulation.
I'm falling asleep...




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