It so happens I am sick of
being a man.
And it happens that I walk
into tailor-shops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a
swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of
wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops
makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to
lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to
see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles,
no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick
of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of
being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a
cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on
the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets
with a green knife
letting out yells until I
died of the cold.
I don't want to go on being a
root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out,
shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist
guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking,
eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a
root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a
warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it
sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes
up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like
a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of
warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain
corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the
bones fly out the window,
into shoe-shops that smell
like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous
as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored
birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of
houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth
forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from
shame and terror,
there are umbrellas
everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.
I stroll along serenely, with
my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting
everything,
I walk by, going through
office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing
hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts
from which slow
dirty tears are falling.