Immanuel Misfud

Four poems

Canticle of the Depressed

I’m beginning to think my blood is diseased,
I’m beginning to think you don’t love me anymore,
I’m beginning to think I might forget how to smile,
I’m beginning to think my eyes are about to melt,
I’m beginning to think my hands will soon fall off,
I’m beginning to think my face will start to slip,
I’m beginning to think I’ll soon be a crybaby,
I’m beginning to think I’ll soon stand with legs apart
and give birth to a hideous boy with red eyes.
I’m beginning to think I’ll soon have forgotten my name.
I’m beginning to think that I’ll soon knot the rope
in order to pluck this flower from its spot,
in order to run this boat up on some reef.
I’m beginning to think I’ll forget who you are.
I’m beginning to think my blood will start to flow,
will spurt all of a sudden from my pores.
I’m beginning to think I’ll soon be a night-moth,
I’m beginning to think I might yet be a seagull.
I’m beginning to think soon everything will be at an end
and I’ll be standing here swaying on my own
like a flower that’s been tied up with a heavy rope,
like a flower that’s withered under the moon,
like a boy waiting for his mother’s summons,
like a boy gone to cry for his mother’s help,
like a boy clinging to his mother’s apron strings.

I’m beginning to think that I’ll no longer think.

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