Lorca’s body will never be found by debasis mukhopadhyay

clouds    clouds only flash past the waters    such noumena

at Kennebunkport i’m learning to be peacefully aware of the clank of the wild roses that are not my business

i can’t sentence enough though my memories barking at my heels ever since i woke up in a cabin not very far from the Dock square where last night i believe a kind of green of something gossamery near the windowsill was hankering for the warm breath of the stars through the rips of a sultry sky

& yes with a new name without forgetting my bitter name i was thinking of the merriment promised behind the yellow door left ajar

the lamps & my memories were gleaming enough to lug my heart    calcined enough to subside into the duende

so doomed yet trim & jaunty my heart finally floated

last night at every bend of Kennebunk river the drunken boat of Lorca was wandering my way

 

 

thinking of Lorca with a deep bow i asked myself

should not i bequeath everything to the emptiness of the rental cabin including the blue hyacinth grapes stirring from the numb depths of my white Christian bondage before i play for the boat?

the ceiling was descending    ecstasy dipping into emptiness    into salt    into half of an eye throbbing

i had known the yoke    the tenor of a fog slinking through the potion of hope    everything that sounds & resounds the gulp-choke melancholy of high tide in Ginsberg’s America

& now it was the boat knocking & knocking on that yellow door beckoning me

what was i thinking then    does America beget more than America?

my face must have looked marred by an inscrutable masquerade   no?

no    not my face    it was Lorca’s wax soft forehead shimmering in the duende i have been carrying all through my life

welcome to the stage    i heard his insistent verse ringing out

without drawing a breath i knew the oleanders were asking forgiveness for their old bitterness potted in blood

tonight i will walk the path with them until i get to the boat

trade me if you like for your laments    Lorca said dizzily inside my skull

the mouth of the Kennebunk river was full of darkness churning    there was though no hidden replica in the eroded sky-borne moon    that very moon to my blueprint bone

 

 

the midnight’s sirens were praying harder for America’s hope dressed as a striped woman with kohled eyelashes & a body of clay all swollen up

on the bridge painted with a superfluous blue &/or red    that always leap sweetly upon themselves in the presidential hullabaloo    i was left face to face with a gaudy rhetoric of power asking me    are you ready?

are you ready?

as if i was just entitled to an interlude & it was about time in Sodom

i didn’t know if i had time to remember the nymph i had left behind in an essentialist boat shop gone down the drain

the feigned shock in her waxy eyes when i had anointed my hand in the cold sweat cauterizing her muzzy breasts    removing mistakenly her shawl sheathed in gold

the blessedness running out of time when her thighs started to keel in the depths of a pounding psyche before turning to stone

Lorca’s heavy boots all around us in that boat shop where plenty of sun-kissed tomatoes were lying scattered    here & there

their old skin on the wane

now i looked over the lewd bridge trying to spot the drunken boat hulking under the scaffold of lassitude

do you agree to take on    Lorca seemed to blurt out under his sombrero & i was really ready to inherit his curly words that always propel me back to a sorcery endlessly hollow & humane

how could i forget the countenance    yet i knew the boat was waiting for me in the dusted carmine canvas badly hung inside that rental cabin

my fate had been already jettisoned

 

 

i was again about to open or maybe i opened again a jar only to glance down for the last time at the face of my mistress soaked in formaldehyde

luminous such luminous face that keeps your time without you having to dial the sharp memories rolling along the rust of rain

i was raging & not scared to laugh at my own wreck finally becoming an abscess still holding out its hands

in her eyes i saw also our children clawing & kneading playdough inside the kitchen of George Bush’s summer home in Kennebunkport

that sun-filled slaughter house was full of Kafka & Modigliani guarding the silence of a restless gong

i tried to think of a pool of blood beat-by-beat but the oleanders kept coming back to remind me of the awaiting topsail schooner    & i moved on in search of the yellow door yellow & yellow    so proud to be yellow

this is what i have always done with my whole life

all i wanted out of my life is to stay put or maybe to move to the other side of the world

where was the difference

i have never lifted my head from the lullabies to hear the cowbells the gypsy bells the queer bells the refugee bells

are you ready    the gong aroar now swirling through the synaptic cleft & binds in my rodent brain

amen    said i rising from the muddy banks of a fiction of puritanical discretion pressing creases into the cloak of Donald Trump

i knew all the thugs will be in power    their nobility speaking in tongues

& Lorca’s body will never be found

at Kennebunkport i’m still watching the clouds    the rise of the tides    & hoping to peddle my life for Lorca’s boat

& the word is that the pitiful history will arise from the bawdy clouds trampling on the underpainting

..

Note: first appeared in different version in Manneqüin.Haüs (may 17, 2016)