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"Boots with laces, Vincent van Gogh

. Are
two strange fossil, a shadowy emissaries
buried in a forest fauna coal
coming to claim a mite of light for your dead?
Are idols of stone, rubble
detached from the mill of the saddest dreams? Or are
iron molds
steps to forge the image of martyrdom and likeness of penance?
.
Are your old boots, unfortunate Vincent,
bespoke a deep interior, such as orthopedics in exile;
two slices of torment bitumen hardened by poverty,
embalmed by drizzle sour
with some loose ties weave only with homelessness loneliness, but with hard
buttresses to be meager the game of fate,
to corral you into the wall round the crows.
.
But are your boots, perfect in its kind of asylum,
tie models for each burst of hallucinatory journey,
faithful as your chair, your eyes and your Bible. Clinging to you like
fatal claws from plants to the ankles, Groot Zundert
from the inn of hell just end
is useless to want to bury your roots in a house buried under the debris, the mud
burnished brightness candles and the intimate warmth of the potatoes,
because time and again faced with the edge of mayhem,
because time and again the waterspout sucks up who do not understand: your flight
evaded a blue vertigo, like a crater of fire.
. Boots
trench, helpless in the battle of the storm and the soul:
you have turned in all of heaven
vortices and have fallen into the trap of your fire hidden under fire in the fields,
without ever finding a way out ,
for more fans to trample the flowers and bees buzzing yellow suns
those furious scream deafeningly against your ear, so distant, lost as a pale
hostage among the clouds of another world.
. Boots
court groping in the night of the scaffold, with no other
glow ripped some poor flint flashes of madness,
among which is a bird shot in the middle of your flight:
the strange, remote target of a black ad above. Echo
coffin stumbling up the stairs to the bedside hesitate
where incredible rush visions glass, cracked by a bullet
the barren universe,
and drop to slow shake the dust storm balance attached to their soles.
.
now sniff the blanket of ivy that covers your dream with Theo,
there in the irreversible Auvers-sur-Oise,
and dig another grave among the scaffolds the vast darkness.
are boots goodbye forever and ever, hungry funeral:
are searched in the memory of your death.
,
,

No. 11 of the night drift (1984)

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