You let it drop to me.
You spoke of my confessions...
what about yours?
Is it the case that
you and I share the same tendency
to cover our tracks?
One born of preterit hope...
that what cannot be seen,
may not exist...
An ultimate presence and absence
co-mingled in matrixial night,
of the darkest matter?
You mentioned the horrors of war,
seductive cover-ups...
the fashion to obscure the lies
and the drapery
of existence failed.
Your grief,
Nuremberg,
your fathers standards...
splinters in your soul...
a trail of sorrows,
the lagrima mundi...
of your entire life.
Now the splinters emerge
and come to term,
not the first time,
but again as specter
in the form of paintings
as elegant and minimal
as any judgmental
and discriminating Papa
might expect
from his exquisitely
talented and beautiful
daughter,
the daughter
whom
awakens
amongst the ravage
of horror
and human misery
bound in ecstasy.
And under the cover of cosmic night
you do your Papa proud,
your Papa is undone.
Meanwhile the sheets are set
and the forms
remain clean,
aquiline fine,
with all the glimmer
and spareness
one should want
of a woman desired
yet chaste.
Look Papa!
All of it is there!
Your daughter has
suggested everything,
while revealing nothing!
She has done it
beautifully,
tastefully,
delicately,
amid your past
and presence
which lay
concealed
by her growing power,
her frightful bower,
of intimacy and secrecy.
Papa is there a groom
whom shall marry this bride?
Or a seed
that shall be spilled upon her?
My Lady,
To you
I will reveal
only what is comfortable
for you to bare.
I will spare all
or spare nothing.
Spare is
as spare does,
So shall I be spare
for the sake of thee.
the point of my discharge
vessel of electric overload,
virgin ground,
And to you it is charged
to remain pure
and to remain active
even after the light passes through,
and the carnal blood is spilled.
My lady
I implore you
The sky is alive
for the ground to receive.
