Julien Torma Returns from the Mounts of Tyrol
Your “cruel” Tiernjoch, here is the mountain
of mayhem where our adventure
began. A failed project, I trailed off into
its outset, your beloved star turned collapsar.
I was a poor guide. I never misled you.
You granted me my only life. You cared.
Damn you. Now I will speak with the dead
certainty of the peasant who holds
dear his daily milk and radish on such
arcana as would cripple a more
love-groomed, loathsome poet.
Nothing, gloriously starlit, comes to mind,
the trembling beauty of a safe abortion.
I assure you, I’m a breathing plagiarism,
too, packed, no, packaged with more platitudes
than friends to tell them to. Believe nothing
I don’t say. I’m the iceman haunting cinema.
I write myself à mort: “It’s a coarse coat of frieze,
but it keeps one warm.” Our Last Knight
dawned upon the land he loved to blot out
chamois from the hills with unmatched skill.
Thus I return to void my mark––“Ha ha!”
quoth the mandrill, for the sake of change,
and rightly so. You see, I hate waiting
in movies for life to start again; I loathe
the cold of learning of another person;
I can’t write a word if it’s poetry. Hell hath
its Eden, too, no doubt. Now with the sweet
honesty of the peasant who carves his face
into a dying Christ’s likeness, I’ll cut my spiel
on such pieties I couldn’t cut with diamond.
Grant me one life more, for example.
Tyrol’s dead rise up everyday
to squabble for space in a schoolgirl’s book.
You living give your lives to preserve an alibi.
Mandrills, too, “must love one another or die.”
The good Tyrolese wisely play dead.