Self-Search
The color of the heart is red— the crimson, blood-soaked cells of the head, from where do they come, and what work do they perform with the poet? In the books of pundits, in the reigns of kings, in Plato’s Republic—is there room for poets at all? Man arrives first— and the more mad he is, the further he advances in platonic love. I, too, may hasten my recovery, painting the hue of yellow bones while rehearsing storms inside the brain. The thoughts of mindless creatures are founded only upon sex. Yet if the abyss of the mind could be searched, then Marx, sir, I too would come, to set up a household inside a museum. If at mealtime none were left starving, then man’s task might have been simple, and states could be built like hives of bees— life would pass in monotonous labor, without regret of waste. Across the road of humanity comes the solitary heart, a wild beast, its rhythm like poetry slipping loose from the brain, laden with dialectical hedonism. Where does rain...