EU-MANUAL   

BIRTH
A neglected Medea gave us birth
silently against a wall
that tawny village women were whitewashing,
and on their wide low-hanging breasts we first touched the words:
"Take Revenge On Kronos" they said;
we read "Chronos";
and instead of killing God, we have been killing time.
CHILDHOOD
Gorgeous blue sea, thirteen years old,
trapped in my white lighthouse now,
kiss by kiss, you turn the sun's wheel around
and chase away the reflections of my giant long-dead relatives
who leap from hill to hill (and I think support the air)
while you entangle me like a wet constrictor, blindly and unlawfully.
ADOLESCENCE
Wind - pandemonium -
my skirt disobeys - my throbbing escalates -
knowing that for a hundred centuries I have existed
like this, leaking and dripping
and moaning.
YOUTH
Where is a real God to make love to me?
FAMILY
Why do I feel personally saddled with
the weight of the world, all history,
the stony nostalgia of the dead,
with my heart carved on stone?
EDUCATION
The knife must be parallel to the veins
—I used it earlier to cut the meat—
and the mirror must be covered with enough virgin cocaine
so that no one can see the surveillance planes
flying across the murky sun
puncturing needlemarks in the foreign sky and cloud.
MODERNITY
Line one—
electric fuck—
the woman denies the existence of the sun—
her marvellous laugh slips down the staircase—
running after it her spine is
a squealing mauve violin—
line six.
SEX
When I am breathlessly rolling
silver-coated with sperm
inside an unknown boy's dreams.
LOVE
The color red red on you I learned—pam—
and that other color we have—pampam—
that reflects history—pam—
whenever your skin, butterfly-thin
and as mysterious as Aeolos,
sings to me—pampampam—
the extremity of my dream
turns you—pampam—
into a mythic inner beat.
LUST
When my skin gets set on fire
like a house of ancient red hot bricks,
I reach in and nervously rearrange
in my womb the slick furniture.
EXPERIENCE
Your short black hair falls out of my pipe
—sharp memory of my brutal carnalization.
ADULTHOOD
In other lands, women like me,
after scarification rites,
wear ebony and ivory circles,
and fill their vaginas with live snakes
for fertility.
WORK
How do these big blue girls row up that raging river? 
Why do some archers vibrate more than their bows? 
Why does the heart that lives under this land pulse irregularly?
What's the value of time?  And how can I turn the trivial-and-vulgar tragic?
POLITICS
As I engrave shady spirals on the left quadrant of the sky,
the world can see only my small white fists chipping
away at the stars and knocking down imaginary beasts
on which ignorant chirping girls and boys proudly ride.
AESTHETICS
Beauty breeds pain,
and the free can only learn from the slaves.
PROCREATION
Between the wedded dead woman and the wedded dead man
gapes open a powerful black hole
through which buyoant boys and girls
slide back and forth for ever.
CONCEPTION
Death takes me like a lover by the nauseated belly
where Zeus' sperms swirl like mad silver boats
on those nights when my hands smell of tobacco and cum
and I like to lick them.
MOTHERHOOD
I have inherited
the gods' deceits, the temple whores,
the giggle echoing through Heraklitus,
the Pleiades' lights and Pyrrha, alone,
birthing stones,
and more stones,
enough to fill the known earth,
like voiceless oracles.
MOTHERHOOD - NINE MONTHS LATER
Medea's womb breaks and reveals itself
not as the sea at night glimpsed through a breach in a white wall,
but as a black thick fruit juice, an old fluid,
like rank indelible ink.
A host is just a host.
MOTHERHOOD - YEARS LATER
On our ransacked cathartic flesh,
we commit eternal incest.
FAMILY LIFE
Later, we hang upside down like bats,
we pile up the big-headed babies in our center for safety,
and wait to behold the face of the day's demon or god,
nestled in a busy-minded nostalgia,
trapped.
MATURITY
The days of the long journey will come,
when you will search for a horizon in your pocket,
you will blow the dust off your sandals,
you will climb on top of the ramparts,
you will open your arms like wings,
and you will wait.
SPIRITUALITY
For every saint, there is a living church
gently lifting its skirt,
showing the world our sacrificial leakage;
that image is the root of all silence—
which prophets call Revelation.
TRADITION
Without our knowledge, our shadows stroll
nightly
through lustful ceremonies of consecration
on the raging bull's horns. 
REALIZATION
That vague insufferable threat
hovering in the dead center of the world
is a shred of luminous torn plastic
flailing in the wind from a creaky sycamore twig.
SOLITUDE
After everything had turned to stone,
including the mirrors,
Medusa wandered about petrifying the blind,
and as she painfully dragged along her long forested hair
in which most creatures could be found breeding
in hiding,
she randomly asked the world at large:
'DO I HAVE TO STAY PREGNANT FOREVER?'
OLD AGE
Every night, the owls' hoots
spring out of my still wrists.
Trust me.
MORTALITY
Look back at me as you want to
and merely make my flesh into a pretty little song,
Orpheus,
for our fingers will always reach
about one millimeter below the truth.
DEATH
"I can't die! I can't die!"
The woman shouted and flicked her eyes
at the echo of an unmistakable dirty odour
as she was vanishing up her spinning hole
—the Christ part, the baby gorilla in the center of the frame—
leaving behind her the world in darkness.
THE END
All beauty
exists in fragments.