It’s not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.
E. M. Cioran, The Trouble with Being Born
How do you kill a man
who was created immortal
as a whim—
just like you once were—
to suffer;
for the seventh day
was his first one
in the watercolours
of the garden?
Never alone
until he opened his eyes,
the man was yet to know
but Eden’s meanders
he would wander now
and again—
the moss-lined floor
of a padded cell
and the out-of-reach cerulean
of a window.
He couldn’t have foreseen
the entangled
in the tedium of shape
change next to none
in that wretched yard
where even time
is a derivative entity.
Besides, knowledge was forbidden
to him
by an implacable decree.
And so he practised
breaking stupor, with breaks
for physiology and sleep.
But it was only
when he discovered
the sharp edges of obsidian
that the divine physician
brought him a rib
as a distraction
from carving his arms.
* * *
Grass as bed linen
won’t ever remember
what the preuve du sang
had to remain silent—
substitutes bear no tears,
so she didn’t cry.
It was a very revealing night—
one of many to come:
for her to withstand,
for him to endure
(as odd as that may sound),
before the age of small talk.
And though gravely mistreated
by tautologies,
they somehow managed
to keep their faith
in progress,
albeit with clashing definitions.
But the aeons I watched them,
something was amiss.
Only when I finally faced them
did I realise—no one had ever told them
there was life
beyond the panopticon.
* * *
The world of things
as they are in themselves
awakens a thought
born of disbelief—
whether it’s an eviction notice
or a stray stanza.
But what does one do
when one stands
in the middle of an orchard-
themed wallpaper with a bag
of Golden Reinette
and a supermarket receipt?
At least they appreciated
the home delivery—
the man and the woman
in the Eden suburb,
where mowing the lawn
and washing windows
is life’s liturgy.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 