Godfuck

I’ve been falling for hours now
And my parachute shows no signs of opening,
Nor the ground of appearing.
The sun is spinning reckless, cold
In placid, fearless orbit.
My blood grows radically, fortunate.
Godfuck, empty patience taints,
Saps my halted fever, songwind.
Peril and pleasure exalted
By the drone of air and fear
Cackle and the wind-calm,
Circular and feigning to portray
The seasons of light.
Time is taken reluctant [grey-bilious]
By sweeping hand-thief’s
Ominous title of God – fuck.
Here comes the ground.

-Michael Texeira




Death

Death is Fortune’s queen
Upon obsidian thrones
They wait patiently

Michael Texeira




Existentialist Nightmare

I have someone else’s hands.
That is, the very hands writing this,
while attached to my mind,
belong to someone or something else.
My thumb was nimble and elegant,
with a jovial air and slender suit.
My hand was not so big either,
not this lumbering monstrosity,
this flesh encased building.
I suspect I am not in my body
for all I have seen most certainly
belongs to someone else.
I was never this short
nor was my face this round.
I just want the fun to stop,
to be able to look in my own eyes,
to make sure that I am me.

Michael Texeira
Copyright © 2001