by the time the performers grow tired of this silly diversion
you'll be artlessly heaved in your senseless uproar
while I'll resign composed in my observant position,
irked and disenthralled by this madcap auditorium,
by their turmoil and futile dramatics.
they're all drunk, my dear, I tell you,
how obsolete this language they speak,
irrationally, backwards, plethorically,
how unreasonable their temperature and gestures.
see, one by one, they slide in currents and drink their downfalls,
so unaware of the nature of their entrapment...
and you, well, you quietly and absurdly drink your own,
in your mute innermost twilights
when you run fore and backwards on hazardous bridges
from illusory night skies to nightmarish blood-red dawn.
and I can only immovably measure the vacancy of this desert,
in my cold, divided hall of mirrors,
while we humor ourselves in this heedless actor status,
in the microscopic simulacrum of existence
between those two minute, cut off extensions
where you begin and end on my resolute orbit.
so strange that you spread yourself in this draining convulsion,
because I can merely assume to grasp the unhinged nonsense
of an alphabet I've forgotten how to speak
somewhere ahead of time, ahead of sense and axioms,
of a certain slip of hand and uptight voice tone,
of humans and their fickle absurdities.
how derisory, Image, how pointless and strange...
