Sunday, 19 May 2013

I am not there where friends treat the malingering,
chronic illness of their gloomy souls with wine drinking:
I am alone, my evening tea is brewing,
friend to no one, no friends for me, I'm thinking.

Phallic games, that used
to attract me, now make me nauseous,
the monk takes his whip in hand to calm his sex,
but even under the whip I'm not inspired to tenderness.
I don't care what time it is, what century.
Why do I need fame in the contemporary,
when the time of those boyhood dreams
has passed, those when the world seemed many-headed?

It's pleasant to be conscious of having known the essence,
but the essence of essence, alas, is unobtainable,
and we all pass on - and that makes sense,
and to glance at oneself we are never able.

 - Leonid Aronzon.

Picture: 'Silhouette du peintre' by Leon Spilliaert (1907).

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