FLESH OF THE FAITH
some buffoon
they call and
who calls
himself
a philosophy
slipping between
jokes
and profundity
fires away
name of the game
dance
of truth, not
so easy to work out
the steps
world and self what
they want to say
for themselves
despite themselves
so damn intricate
so hard to
pin down when
in this labyrinth every
level brings
fresh layer
of deception
and why
must he always
touch
his nose?
is that some
kind of tic, sign of
secret brotherhood or
silent spiritual homage
to H and L and
M his
forebears and yes,
masters
meanwhile I am continuing
this badly scripted
life story
my tale of desire
full of
twists and turns but
no story to speak
of itself
an iron wall
dystopian stuff with
digital chip on
the shoulder, chip
in the brain patriarchal
body guards
stretching between my
heart and its object
wherever that
object, whenever it
should
come into being
that the motor, engine of
everything should
be loss
and distance, incompleteness
and sadness
great for Slovenian
thinker, South African poet,
though
getting it down in all
its harrowing
complexity
could be an industry
might
not
keep your warm at night
(flesh
of the faith to
deeply
hold on to) may
not even pay the rent at all
poems 2 die for 