The star always dies in our eyes

januari 23, 2011 kl. 8:51 e m | Publicerat i Skrivande | Lämna en kommentar

Those plasma eruptions, these iron clusters embraced by lava, ice and neural networks.

Those burning forests in Lake Nightsky, exploding in the hearts of poets from here and Andromeda to deeper, outer Space.

These white rivers, white stones, blue tulips and black roses in the garden of fighter pilots, mine workers, exotic dancers and starving artists all over France trying to catch the hills of Provence, the streets of Paris and patronage from smokers of cuban cigars.

These hands that made and packed and unpacked and sold all this fabric on you, this silk, this satin, this lace, this nylon, worn by fans of high heels.

Those asteroids that could have formed planets, those dolphins that could have told us something we would understand, those buildings that didn’t survive floods and storms and wars, these glossy magazines with pictures of pillows in sofas.

Those lizards, snakes and sharks, tigers, bats and wolves, those quicksand spots, long-tentacled jellyfish and flesh-eating flowers, those giant octopuses, scorpions and crabs, longing to take tango lessons, crash-courses in motorcycle driving and German grammar.

These underground trains, black ties and portfolios, these space shuttles in Tokyo and supermarkets, platinum-blonde gunmen and croupiers from Tijuana, these glowing roulette tables in the penthouses of Zurich Airport and central Milan.

These candles in wine bottles, brown and purple and green, these young butlers in shiny shoes and old maids with pink lipstick standing on luxurious balconies kissing in the moonlight to the sounds of birds and distant discotheques while the filthy rich attend opera houses and bank vaults in masquerade gowns stealing wallets containing euros, dollars and phone numbers to nineteen members of secret societies.

These headlights of airbrushed trucks rolling coast to coast driven by former stock brokers and anthropologists of trailer trash on their way to enlightment and the bars of L.A.

These vending machines, these slot machines, these gray drinks with umbrellas, these yellow fire trucks and experienced cab drivers on patrol in no man’s land.

Those drunken galaxies, these crowded apartments and restaurants, those sandy beaches and no bikinis under palm trees, these sinking sailboats on neon wave oceans, these black and red watchtowers of bricks and steel, every night.

The star always dies in our eyes.

a poem by Håkan Tendell


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