The Death under a pillow

There is a story in every poetry.

My cousin Heamus, 28, was diagnosed with leukaemia, final stage,

on September, 2005. The last five months of life he spent

on a hospital bed, putting up with the idea of dying;

during that time, he wrote me a letter monthly,

expressing thoughts about his own Death,

which occured on January, 2006, while

he was writing one more letter.

He never finished it.

He just started to be a man;

but what a man! I believe he never

knew turpitude or anger. He was a giver

and a lover. Moonstruck, as well. I just couldn’t

enter his hospital room. I stepped back from the door

so many times. I devoured his letters. As I was reading them

again and again, they were converting into lines. Which I wrote

down. It felt like I was living myself with the Death under my pillow.

There is a poetry in every story.
: no known names

Dare to imagine: blood, flesh, bones,

so many needles in the stones

of whispers. The tiles bemoans,

the wheelchair lispers. To that attune

the screaking, yellow, heavy moon,

sleeping over a grim pontoon,

the dark and putrid, sapless water,

this doctor here, ready to slaughter

my corpse and leave shortly after…


I wish I were a song to fly,

to leave away without goodbye

and never ever come nearby!

For me to die, is there an aim?

I’d call on somebody, to blame!

I can’t remember any name…

Dare to imagine: Death’s the same.

October: no more dance

The winter occurs with furies, bedazzling the sphere.

After all the wonders I’ve lived in New Britain,

after all the poems I have never written,

after all the sunsets I have wept with fear

for arriving darkness…

Looming from the rear,

here she comes departing for another riot,

with the eyes of a swan, hungry, sick and quiet,

begging me to stay! Fibbing to my ears…

I begun being emptied of the slumbered years!

But don’t you stop, keep lying, sing, swing and laugh,

have a child with me, let me cop the plea! Although

time’s up, says cancer…

I could never dance again

with the glorious light from my bloated vein.

Soon, I shall switch my soul for a fist of earth.

To a dove of roses our love gives birth.

Take me in your arms one last time and crave.

Alas, I have to look for a gilded grave!

The moon went to sleep on a frozen wave.

November: no way back

’T is a butterfly effect,

or all just turns in ember.

Who brawls me this lullaby

and offers molten amber?

Death’s comin’: heavy steps

pacing over my traces.

I’ll be going on my way,

whitening all the faces.

Don’t cry, don’t call on me,

don’t beckon, don’t despair!

Memory’s a pain. We are

not anymore a pair.

A stone I’ll be, a blade,

a bird, a briar… Bygone

wishes having a parade –

but nothing I require.

No way back,

they say,



the moonshine

of November!

December: no longer a crime

For you I’m waiting every night,

till night is crawling out of sight.

Each morn for you I wait thus far,

till morn is playing the guitar.

It’s you I’m calling every night,

with wrath, with fear, with delight!

And every dawn I call on you!…

(Screams and tears added to.)

Hail! I’d like to linger a rhyme

to which we could dance cheek to cheek

while our bodies each other would seek!

To love you’s no longer a crime.

Embark the wherry and be merry!

I do not actually know Mary,

did I ever loved some Beth?

It’s only you, forever: Death!

What does the moon lie on the aerie?

January: not completed

You, Death, uninvited you came and nestled under my

I have acrid dew on my lips, the words are burning

pregnant words, ripe fruits with golden worms

My blood is a flower dispersing its seeds over

The swans can’t beat the mist and upon

sick night, dense dark. Am I affraid of

I wana reap a basket of stars from

imprisoned memories visiting

stepped on nails and stars

My wings are hurting

cancer got hungry

I did not wield

Full moon



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