The Fly and the Lute


The Soeur-chatter swarms in my head. I have gone
I have left
I have been slid down the cords, the ridges of metal, the levers broke
under my back. I am the playful, decadent fly
circumferes swoops under and over the cords of the varnished wooden lute. The unvarnished lute means nothing, it is a bird-house
played by a monk.
I am the fly whose 6 ankles are trapped in the varnish
the lusterlacquer of the lute
that shakes the oranges, still bluegreen, tiny fists, timid, invisible.
I have fallen from the whiskered mouth,
from the grease-crowned head of the player,
I have missed the gaping hole of the cedar
that represents the hole in a woman’s back
through it I once had stuck my murk-head
with more eyes than Argos constable
of the cow stable. (Eyes of blue-red-green clarity, like stable windows
without cumbersome glass, through which bats and death can enter
without breaking traffic laws of the private.)
I have not found the fruit-sugar of my pilgrimage,
I have died before the end of the concert,
drowned in the varnish and not
in blood swirling,
not in the flames
where the lute will find its end like all rails that guide the locomotives
of sliding hands and of selves and of volition intelligently orchestrated.

For the lute must not outlive its player, unless to be held an kissed by his talented orphans
born of the holes in women’s backs, longing for the iron laws of their iron pansy-liver’ed, warrior-lutist fathers.

and the honey cleaned with fire of the flies’ feet,
sugar-toed. 

 

 

–Arturo Desimone

Buenos  Aires 2014

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