Official interpretation of the Imperial Vision: Metamorphosis In his immobility

 

Official interpretation of the Imperial Vision: Metamorphosis In his immobility

 

 

Under the split in the retreating black cloud

the invisible scale of spring

is oscillating

in the fresh April sky.

On the highest mountain,

the god of the snow,

his dazzling head bent over the dizzy space of reflections,

starts melting with desire

in the vertical cataracts of the thaw

annihilating himself loudly among the excremental cries of minerals,

or

between the silences of mosses

towards the distant mirror of the lake

in which,

the veils of winter having disappeared,

he has newly discovered

the lightning flash

of his faithful image.

It seems that with the loss of his divinity the whole high plateau

pours itself out,

crashes and crumbles

among the solitude and the incurable silence of iron oxides

while its dead weight

raises the entire swarming and apotheosic

plateau from the plain

from which already thrust towards the sky

the artesian fountains of grass

and from which rise,

erect,

tender,

and hard,

the innumerable floral spears

of the deafening armies of the germination of the narcissi.

Already the heterosexual group, in the renowned poses of preliminary expectation, conscientiously ponders over the threatening libidinous cataclysm, the carnivorous blooming of its latent morphological atavisms.

In the heterosexual group,

in that kind date of the year

but not excessively beloved or mild,

Far from the heterosexual group, the shadows of the advanced afternoon draw out across the countryside, and cold lays hold of the adolescent’s nakedness as he lingers at the water’s edge.

When the clear and divine body leans

down to the obscure mirror of the lake,

when his white torso folded forward

fixes itself, frozen,

in the silvered and hypnotic curve of his desire,

when the time passes

on the clock of the flowers of the sand of his own flesh,

He loses his being in the cosmic vertigo

in the deepest depths of which

is singing

the cold and Dyonisiac siren of his own image.

His body flows out and loses itself

in the abyss of his reflection,

like the sand glass that will not be turned again.

You are losing your body,

carried away and confounded by the millenary reflection of your disappearance

your body stricken dead

falls to the topaz precipice with yellow wreckage of love,

your white body, swallowed up,

follows the slope of the savagely mineral torrent

of the black precious stones with pungent perfumes,

your body ...

down to the unglazed mouths of the night

on the edge of which

there sparkles already

all the red silverware

of dawns with veins broken in ‘the wharves of blood’.

Do you understand?

Symmetry, divine hypnosis of the mind’s geometry, already fills up your

head,

with that incurable sleep, vegetable, atavistic, slow

Which withers up the brain

in the parchment substance

of the kernel of your nearing metamorphosis.

The seed of your head has just fallen into the water.

Man returns to the vegetable state

by fatigue-laden sleep

and the gods

by the transparent hypnosis of their passions.

You are so immobile

one would think you were asleep.

If it were a question of Hercules rough and brown,

one would say: he sleeps like a bole

in the posture

of an Herculean oak.

But you, made of perfumed bloomings of transparent adolescence,

you sleep like a water flower.

Now the great mystery draws near,

the great metamorphosis is about to occur.

 

In his immobility, absorbed by his reflection with the digestive slowness of carnivorous plants, becomes invisible.

There remains of him only

the hallucinatingly white oval of his head,

his head again more tender,

his head, chrysalis of hidden biological designs,

his head held up by the tips of the water’s fingers,

at the tips of the fingers

of the insensate hand,

of the terrible hand,

of the excrement-eating hand,

of the mortal hand

of his own reflection.

When that head slits

when that head splits

when that head bursts,

it will be the new flower.

....and THAT's how the imperium of a billion worlds governs itself.