Tuesday, June 14, 2011



Spies of heaven
are the little yellow dots
sprinkling over your mind
every once in a while

It is the fantasy of angels
Peering through your life
While you eat.
While you shit, or fuck.

It is the god within you
turned inward, dissatisfied
with your precious flesh
abandons you
in the shallow grave
of your life
busted by times
infinite nothing

Spies of Heaven are
Mysterious people
Looking through your eyes
Shadows of another world
While you sit riveted
To a chair
Staring into a cup
Breathing - strangely.

They are cooking breakfast
In a kitchen
On another street
In another town
Sitting at a table
A cloth, a cup, a plate…
A broom, plant
And always there
On the counter, death
As the light of the sun
Staring through your eyes

they don’t know it
just as you
don’t know yourself

There are distant
cosmic processes
going on in every step
every pore on your skin
every molecule
of your being
a cavernous echo
of history’s deadly plot
They play out
in the blink
of your eye
the infinite variations
of you
while one is enough

Spy of heaven
is the witness
In the clay mold
Of your flesh
The ground
Of which you stand

It is keeping tabs on you
Counting the genes
Destroying them
And then counting again
The war in your stomach
Is merely a symptom
Of its infinite permanence
It is simply there
To outlive the matter
Of which you
are composed

it is there to remind you
that it will reclaim
what you call yourself
and once again
you will be part
of the great void.

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