"Nachtlied, Erste Fassung," by Georg Trakl; translation by me.

Über nächtlich dunklen fluten
sing' ich meine traurigen Lieder
Lieder die wie Wunden bluten
Doch kein herz trägt sie mir wieder
dürch das Dunkel her.

Nur die nächtlich dunklen fluten
rauschen, schluchzen, meine Lieder
Lieder die von Wunden bluten
tragen an mein herz sie wieder
dürch das Dunkel her."


"Above the nocturnal dark tides
I sing my sorrowful songs
Songs that bleed like wounds
But no heart carries them back to me
Through the darkness here.

Only the nocturnal dark tides
roar, sob my songs
Songs that bleed from wounds
carry my heart back again
through the darkness here."

The Night of 5-15-2011.

I wrote this during a fit of insomnia. It's a bittersweet poem about someone with whom I had - and still have - a flirtationship. A week before, I was hanging out with her, and I was unhappy with the fact that we didn't do a lot but sleep. I didn't realize at the time that doing nothing with someone special is better than being bored by yourself. A week later, I wrote this.

My mind's inability to calm down some nights
wouldn't be so bad,
as long as I could have the feeling of her in my arms,
the smell of her hair in my face,
the feeling of her breath against my skin,
her legs entwined with mine,
the warmth of her body as she nuzzles into me
and the sound of her plaintive sigh
that tell me that she needs to be held tighter,
the sight of the light from the streetlamp outside
bathing her porcelain skin in an angelic glow,
and her face leaning in for a comforting kiss when she briefly wakes up.
If damnable sins exist,
then one of them would be to take moments like that for granted.

"Cardiectomy" by me.

I wrote this six years ago, when I was going through a divorce. It was a time when I believed in the ideal of lasting love and "death do us part". I've come to learn that, when you let go of certain ideals, it's harder to be psychologically killed.

I awake

laying on a hard surface.

A table,

cold and unforgiving.

I can't move.

Strapped down.

 

I lift my head

and see a grey room.

Poe-esque in its dinginess

but no rats are present.

 

There's a figure,

female,

broad at the shoulder,

just shy of six feet in height.

Her back is towards me.

She's wearing a surgical cap.

 

She turns around,

gingerly holding a scalpel

in her slender hand.

 

She leans down.

I notice a pale complexion

and silver and brown strands of hair

peaking from under the cap.

Her nose,

partially hidden behind a surgical mask,

is prominent and somewhat narrow,

betraying possible

eastern-European heritage.

I look up,

into those prematurely aged eyes,

brown and glassy.

 

I know her.

I know who this is

Black-Tongued Mother of Countless Lies!

 

I know what's next

But I pray it's not true.

 

It's true.

The tip of the scalpel

touches a few inches below my larynx...

and pierces...

splitting the skin

from my upper chest to my abdomen.

I scream!

Mercy!

Pity!

Compassion!

God, please,

stir the humanity within her!

 

I scream,

hoping to distract her

so she can no longer concentrate.

No avail.

She resumes cutting

from my left pectoral muscle

to my right

 

The smell,

like rusted iron,

overtakes my olfactory nerves,

as a warm liquid,

dark red,

flows backward

around my neck.

 

I plead

begging the Depraved Deceiver

to end the violating mutilation.

She pauses,

gazing at me with flat affect

but returns to her work.

She makes the next incision

across my abdomen,

forming an 'I' shape

in my torso.

 

She peels the flaps open,

flensing skin from flesh,

then rending flesh from ribs.

Ribs separated,

I am exposed.

I lift my head one last time

and see my heart beating

within the pericardium.

All goes black.

 

I awake,

naked and hanging from a ceiling.

In a grey room.

A freezer

that's dimly lit.

Above my head,

and all around me,

chains creak.

Looking down,

and feeling with my hands,

I notice hooks

protruding from under my collarbones.

 

I turn,

twisting the chains,

taking in my surroundings.

Turning to my left,

I see a long row

of similarly mutilated people.

I'm not the first.

Turning to my right,

I see more chains and hooks.

I won't be the last.

 

I look down.

In a crude fashion,

my chest is stitched shut,

and feels empty.

I study the others,

looking at the twisted expressions

on their faces,

the haunting, pleading

expressions in their eyes,

the crude way their split chests

have been restitched.

Some have had their

heads opened; but in many cases

weren't closed again.

 

I pull

lifting myself up

on the chains.

Then I yank each hook from my back

and fall to the cold floor.

The cold doesn't really bother the dead.

 

I open the door

and emerge in the operating room.

Looking around,

there's no one here.

A door.

I enter.

 

In odd juxtaposition

to the operating room,

I'm standing in a kitchen.

I smell a plethora of spices,

simmering in a pan.

The oven is preheated

at 350 degrees.

Next to the sink

is a casserole dish,

in which is a variety of vegetables

with rice as a base.

The center of the dish is empty.

I look into the sink.

There's a collander,

in which lays my heart,

partially necrotized,

and drained.

 

I run to the cupboards,

and pull out a plastic container

and a fitting lid.

I carefully place my heart

into the container.

 

She will not have my heart.

I will take my heart

far away from this house of horrors.

I will continue my healing

in a place that is conducive for doing so.

I will live again.

Spontaneous writing from Summer of 2011.

This, that,
the other,
don't know, don't care to mention,
it's all futile, it's all a charade,
hidden behind masks of politeness and fear of alienation from those you care about,
the isolated self picked apart by the vultures of within, birds of self-doubt;
within the self-imposed cocoon, I scream