fabrizio’s poem about magdalene the woman

i love your eyelashes which sift the rolling suns of betrayal lo /ve/

the steamship of your body the large shoulders and the melon slices of your breasts by sun/set/

crescents which i lift with the swollen fingers of the motorman in the milky ste /am/

the ends of your hair the nose of my boat which i thrust in the thi/ck/

interior of the outer labia i take a long way to unfold the wa /ves/

you love to sway me on your thighs a wooden boat with a violet motorman before  /you/

kindle me a cinder not higher than the navel you lift the bulk of shoulders /and/

the breasts of cheese glowing teasingly before sailing reefs of vio/let/

phosphorus sown sown sown my country seaman the sweat of my skin /is/

draining through my eyes as a sweet sorrow this is a work of mourning* for the motor  /man/

ship’s boys stumble on top of you and in the foam i spured remotely burn /ing/

from the motor lightning with which i cut your fishtail magda /lene/

on top of you drooling ship’s boys pirates the ends of your hair as hissing sticks of dyna /mite/

you lie sprawling in the breeze your navel bubbling with the vortexes of pen  /elope/

the hip-releasing exclamations of odysseus, aeneus dreamed a dream of you to the /end/

in the seaports the only one nailed in the gallery of your machine bo /dy/

is me fabrizio, sentenced in the wooden boat to mourning my hands are growing  /numb/

in the milk of the crescent nipples the legs with violet veins stand stiff in the sup  /port/

of your phosphorus legs slightly leaning as is right before the th /rust/

the peppery tears which i pour to extinguish your broad shoulders with  /swimming/

* the work of mourning was the way in which fabrizio rather but not referred to that melancholic aptitude for the lost bird the broken looking glass etc. by diderot /as freud was concerned he thought him metaphysical/ whereas i believe he never read any of sarah kofman so i think he would call this condition between confusion and pathos ITSEEMSASIF when the duality of our nature is felt stronger than ever and at the same time the revelation of this perfection is delivered on us without any opportunity of separating apollo from misery: the collision and pointlessness of opposites „i know, i don’t know, i do as if ”