by Dorina Brândusa Landén
Inside a deformed belly
of a day-to-day existence
my heart sours like dough.
I spend a good deal of time
amongst humans
who suffer more than me
surprisingly lenient
or haunted
by a well-disguised fear.
With what has remained of their bodies
I build the awaiting of death
as an art - a cold fog dripping
over the desire of a lifetime
through the arteries of suffering.
Wherever they go
they will carry with them the imperfection
and a faint smell
of barbiturates and wax
murkiness of unsure steps.
Dispirited
though so alive I am
and in a certain way
I know how not go around the bend.
How much selfhood
in one heart!
I begin by not lying
trying to give a serene appearance
of death that will come without greatness
that comes almost like a mistress
a discreet lover
hidden in a breeze
you can hardly feel
a strangled breath
of a light of an entity near nonentity.
But I still breathe
I earn my daily bread
sharing with piety
huge amounts of empathy
and if I do not sleep at nights
it’s because in my sleep I gather
the dead more than the living.
If my words disturb you
ladies and gentlemen
you can always say:
this is literature!
Last updated May 25, 2014