Stalker Andrei Tarkovsky – David Hay
April 21, 2022
Bright tears and shadows
slouch In midnight fear,
Before I slap the stars out of place.
I cry, blowing my trumpet of burnt roses,
before sitting down in my finest wears
to eat sin like a bloated corpse,
below a half-mast of agony.
I dread the sun which turns in my skull
even when I’m asleep,
out of myself.
The angel-wing-angled doors
display the beginning of a born miracle.
A man already dead, dreaming
of breathing in the sea in one gulp,
scoops his eyes up to the sky,
the designs of his heart
help the roots find water.
The shaking of a glass on a steel table.
Listen to it!
Tell me that ain’t beautiful!
I sneak across the bare wooden floors
with no shoes or socks.
So tragic, so fragile.
I think long ago we mistook life for a
dream, a movie, a poem, a play, a book, a game
the river, the mirror.
Everything was lost before it began.
How much wax do you need for that quiff?
Water running fire burning.
Everywhere is a fucking prison.
The door always returns to the exact angel,
sounds of trains using your skull for a track,
fighter planes falling through nothing
but you never hear them crash.
Life is boring.
every house had a spirit,
god lived in everything,
the sun brought life and death,
we are detached.
Eat lice like they’re steaks I say.
That’s the only way to live.
People were once so young,
now we’re cynical before we can walk.
Light cuts into concrete
on the road there is nothing to do but drink.
The professor asks me what I write about,
I say the readers,
what else is there to fucking say?
If you cut together all the screams
emanating from fleshy throats
and played it across the sky
the world would change forever