Walter Ruhlmann

From the Depths

I would need the depths,
the immeasurable abysses:
the gaping holes, the bottomless faults,
the caves opened like mouths ready to suck.
They are regaled with the spurts,
they revel on the warm, fecund flows,
submerging the skins of the cheerful beasts,
on the disruptive, turbid rivers.

To hold back the currents in these gorges,
because drowning is forbidden.
Yet the flux goes beyond reason,
it takes away:
the leaves, the trees, the flowers,
the scarabs, the centipedes.

To brush the ground littered with corpses,
animals, undone, skinned, ripped.
A heap of rotten plants on which the slugs wallow.

Dubious surface, superficial am I,
the depths spit me back, vomit me,
no depth of thought,
I treat myself to no arpeggio.
I lay bare, bottomless, with nothing,
only white blood runs in my veins,
they empty slowly on the forehead
of a bitter and cancerous elf.

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