The immortal son

It never failed:
I'd find a body, which had taken the shape of the bed
I'd start off by tying up its chin, like god, I'd slowly forget

the eyelids I rubbed shut
the knives I laid on shriveled bellies

lights I left on, the souls I waited for
the doors forever shut once I left

so dark
so dense
all the same, I forgot

yet I'm the oldest son who lowers the parents into their graves
in their shrouds wet with holy water, sprinkled with coriander

graveyard mud won't be washed off my shoes
my hands my flanks black and blue from coffin belts

a liver colored man all of a sudden
hands me a book I can't decipher

voices of parents, shafts of hate from graveyards
voices talking shop from underwater

I toss the book on a garbage heap
and lay down hoping my sleep will never end

Night ride on 21

There she sits, cross-legged
like a drop from the full moon
which would burst
if you would touch it with something
other than the tip of your tongue.

The bus will stop when she leaves
and remain like a skull
forgotten in the desert night.

There she is, her ankles
too fragile for these roads
her heart too big
too big for our backstabbing misery.

The breeze which sweeps
the red-hot emptiness, she is
and she leaves.

Secret

I'm a stuffed animal when somebody's there:
the Hobbes of an eternal Calvin.

I'm a tiger when nobody's looking.