Friday, October 17, 2014


By Ziggy Fumar

Mother was infected last night. She's barely breathing…her molecules have lost their scent.

But I can see. It's funny. The lightness of It. The meaning. No more pretending. No more Other. Just me in the woods. And this plague.

At the bottom of a hill to climb. Before a gate to enter. In a cave to fantasize. Beside a whore to hold. And fondle. Outside. In the park. Within the woods. Fine. The air is crisp. Her molecules lose their taste. Now this.

Foul water. Pestilence. They took her away, staggering her molecules, deaf and mute. Within a word. Beyond the course. That war, a famine means nothing…To speak, we must find something to say…especially when we're speechless…where going home is running away…where love betrays a specific treason…the wilder we become.

One won't bury whatever one fails to bring low…Its vapors will rise …polluting nostrils everywhere…