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Solenoid
81
materheslashed:acrouched
baby ready to be born, a
giant spider, a town in the
first hours of the morning,
a big and fresh grapefruit,
a head of a doll with eyes
turned inside. What strange
osmosis between my skull
and the one of an old
author would then occur,
how weirdly our foreheads
would clear up! How our
foreheads would then be
connected in the forehead
area, like in two Siamese,
how his cerebral substance
would merge with mine!
I was looking in his mind,
reading his thoughts, I could
feel his pains, his silences,
his orgasms. His moments
of enlightenment. I would
pour my mental content
over his like sea-stars digest
a nest of shells. We would
connect, we would mix,
Apollinaire and I, T.S. Eliot
and I, Valery and I, until an
unrealistic hybrid that made
one’s spine shiver would
be born, like a hologram,
between us: the book. The
madness of melting into the
liquid gold tank of poetry.
I would look at the lakewater
reflecting the clouds and the
buildings on the opposite
shore until it got dark and
the park got completely
deserted. I wouldn’t even
perceive my unhappiness
any longer, just like we are
not aware that we are made
of billions of cells, that we
are a cluster of lives. Only
when the lake surface no
longer mirrored anything
but the stars would I get up,
my bones stiff, and plunge
into the alleys once more.
One night I went around
the lake floating half a