ALLEGORY OF TORMENT

Between life and life's image, battling,
my heart,
like a red animal, roaring, scratching at what is holy, screaming earth and objects,
its eternal warrior-drama,
against error and terror, displacing itself...

Now, with a broad whip, the myth lashes my assurance,
while society whelms me and my shoe battles against the ocean, while eagles spring from my enigma,
and that sun which I am goes on to explode, crackling,
while matter flashes on the heights of my chest,
while the present flourishes, its tree,
while the boreal city puts forth its dove of substance.

To raze abstract personality, mythical idolatry,
the tremendous drama, chimneys of anarchy, black cemented skies, reconstructing,
and to cast into the abyss all the walls between being and its impulse.

Standing upon sepulchres, in the central city of disorder,
I seek my flower of dust,
my horse dead among swords, without shields, without stockades,
the effective quantity of red rifles,
the volume of the event from the subsoil of sleep, swelling its sails,
the fruit of reality, open and horrible,
like mountain, like bone, like dove or language.

To be, at the vortex, enlarging the quotidian with lightnings,
that is to say, living by the enigmatical,
to sow truth in the unknown and the beautiful rivers of flux between its mountains.

This is not existence in operation—cult of the idea;
of flames and stone fruits, yes,
accumulating vital anxiety within three walls, locking up
all that is porous and shadowy;
my soul and its social usefulness, which is its truth, and its serpent, and its panther, and its lions,
since what is tremendous, but certain, is what is concrete;
tenacious, sharp, fatal, full of saliva and church-wall bricks,
man's road and grammar,
when nourished on wooden tables, explodes: and genesis begins.

Synthesis of enchained horses,
foam of iron from the sky or accent of the sublimatory tide of the individual against the universe,
it is not I, but the heroic and its jackals
gnawing the burgeois numeral, the metaphysical, the realm of the sons of darkness,
entangling the personality, creating the celestial spider of words creating
the enigma and its angels of blood.

For that very reason, all the redness of impetus, that extraordinary synthetic yearning
becomes sublime fire, hand and knife of gold,
and wrests the spirit from the gears, as from gears it wrests the immeasurable shout of power:
Communist heroism now, its star of labour,
ocean of Soviet heroism, materialist organism resounding in the historico-dialectical eagles,
and raising fistfuls of existence.

Ah yes, not the prophet, not the enlightened one,
not the terrible megalomaniac of metaphors, stealing heroic colts,
no,
within history making history, expressing what flows, happens, and gravitates,
against my symbols, lashing me, rending me,
by virtoe of Marxist truth, collectively, the dynamite of my being explodes.