Darcilio-Lima-Untitled (Detail)
Darcilio-Lima-Untitled (Detail)

Our love
Has become a prison,
But then again
I never wanted to be free.
Do you?

Ten not nine or eleven
But always ten.

We are singular in our plurality
Locked together double-backed
Casting the old triple hex,
Vexing the world while sexing
The quartet of primordial elements

Can you see the pattern
In all these fragments?

The cracked actor drops the mask
And stares into the shattered mirror,
But reflected back in the jagged shards
Are the faces seen during masquerade,
Not anybody’s idea of tragedy.

Any order imposed is as arbitrary
And as random as chaos.

What direction to take?
Make an invocation to the cardinal points,
Look for a sign or an augury
In this emptiness tending
Towards the never-ceasing absolute.

Taken as a whole, maybe
It contains the summation of a sum.

Past the fabled event horizon:
All is only horror here, a hybrid
Of repetitions and repressions
Under the dominion of a Goddess
The metal arachnid XCES who demands homage.

Where do you fit in?
Circle, square, pentagram or rhombus?

Give me succour and some liquor
Then lacquer this reality, varnish
The truth that the party is over,
Drew the curtains, hide from the day
Keep alive the illusions of night and love.


The Surrealist-Victor Brauner 1947
The Surrealist-Victor Brauner 1947

Count it down,
Let it begin,
So that we be finished,
Better sooner than later.
We never start something
Without wanting it over,
Done with all that,
To start on something else,
Something brand spanking
So in descending order
Because to go down
Is really an ascension
Concentrate hard
On the numbers chosen
Whether it be
696, 695, 694
93, 92, 91
Or perhaps just
Forever significant
(But everything has significance)
So let the countdown …

She turns over the card and pauses,
Lost in contemplation and glances
Over at the abstracted young man
Looking downwards at the table,
There cannot be any doubt, no,
Not this time for once she is sure:
She waits until his coppered stare
Intermingles with her agate rays
Before speaking, carefully considers
The weight and import of each word
“Do you see this card, Le Bateleur,
Numero uno in the pack, but neither
Aleph or alpha, although he juggles
Worlds and words, a natural Magician
With fast hands and silvered tongue,
A grifter and a shyster, but make
No mistake his quick change routine
Is as magic as magick is, all is illusion
After all and he just sells us dreams
Make believe meanings, confidences,
The glittering allure of glamour;
But through such deceptive practises
He rends and tears the veil
To reveal ultimate reality, maybe;
The workings of chance and destiny
The latent manifestation of will.
Well…can you see now?
Do you understand?”
Lowering his eyes he shakes his head
“No? Maybe you will one day,
When you look in some form
Of mirror that will reveal more
Than just the surface of things:
The entire history from the whimper
Back to the lightening strike of the start.”