I am sick. It hurts me a wound
stepped in hoofs by running horses.
The organ invisible
that one without name being
un-smelling, un-tasting, un-touching
that one between eye and eardrum,
that one between finger and tongue,-
from evening it disappeared to me simultaneously.
There comes the seeing, firstly, than break,
there is not eye for that that comes,
there comes the smelling, than quiet,
there are not nostrils for that that comes;
then the tasting, the wet vibration,
than, again quiet,
then the eardrums for the movements
lazy of eclipse;
then the touching, the stroked, gliding
on a stretched wave
frozen winter of movements
always on the snowy surface.
But I am ill. I am ill
of something between hearing and seeing,
of a kind of eye, a kind of ear
un-invented by ages.
The branch body without leaves,
the stagy body
thinning out in the free space
after the laws only by bone,
undefeated it let me
the organs sweet of the sphere
between hearing and seeing, between tasting and smelling
stretching walls of silence.
I am ill of wall, of broken wall,
of eardrum-eye, of smelling papilla.
They airily stepped me
the animals abstract,
scarred running of hunters abstract,
their stomachs screaming they stirred them
from an abstract hunger.
And they passed over the undressed organ
in flash and in nerves, in eardrum and retina
and to the mercy of the cosmic void let
and to the divine mercy.
Abstract organ, stretched organ,
organ hidden in ideas, like the humble rays
in sphere, like the bound called
calcaneus in the heel of Achilles
hit by a mortal arrow; fluttered
by the marbleous strict body
and get used only to die.
Here I am, fallen ill by a wound
imagined between the Pole Star
and the Canopies Star and Arturius Star
and Cassiopeia from the evening sky.
I am dieing of a wound which has not entered
in my body apt of wounds
spent in words giving custom of rays
Here I am, I am lying over stones and I am moaning
the organs are broken, the master,
ah, is crazy because he suffers
of the whole universe.
It hurts me that the apple is apple,,
I suffer of pips and of stones,
of four wheels, of drizzling
of meteors, of tents, of stains.
The organ called grass was browsed by horses,
the organ called bull was stabbed
by the toreador slash and ziggurat
which you arena have it.
The organ Cloud has melted
in torrential rains, quick,
and of the organ Winter, has completed you,
always you dropped it.
It hurts me the devil and the verb,
it hurts me the copper, the alior,
it hurts me the dog, and the rabbit, the stag,
it hurts me the tree, the plank, the scenery.
The centre of the atom hurts me,
and the rib which keeps me
remote through the bodily limit
of the other bodies, and divine.
I am ill. It hurts me a wound
which I carry it myself on tray
as like the end of the saint John
in a dance of glory fiery.
I cannot stand that that is not seen,
this is not heard, that is not tasted,
that is not smelled, that is not going in
the thin joint,
skeletal of my individual,
put to the sights of the simple world,
un-suffering other deaths than the deaths
invented by her, to happen.
I am ill not of the songs,
but of broken windows,
of the number one I am sick,
because it cannot divide itself anymore
by two breasts, by two eyebrows,
by two ears, by two heels,
by two legs into running.
That it cannot divide by two eyes,
by two wanderings, by two grapes,
by two roaring lions, and by two
martyrs resting themselves on the stakes.
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