An Elegy for Summer
This is euphoria: the art of painstakingly purging blistered and withered melanin. This is apocalypse: the wait, waiting and waiting for the tear of vapours, of sweat and oil. Summer is judgement season, death and resurrection.
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Summary Execution
I killed the moment,
unsurrendering.
That was our laissez-faire:
A psyched negotiation of freedom and body politics,
Of coercive memory, almost formless, and false renaissance.
That was my experiment:
A concoction of poisoned grandeur and oblivion,
Of testing the unfamiliar taste of air and water; soil and fire.
That was your execution:
La nuit dernière, serait sans doute la dernière.*
And I finally killed you,
Really killed you.
Now.
That was our laissez-faire:
A psyched negotiation of freedom and body politics,
Of coercive memory, almost formless, and false renaissance.
That was my experiment:
A concoction of poisoned grandeur and oblivion,
Of testing the unfamiliar taste of air and water; soil and fire.
That was your execution:
La nuit dernière, serait sans doute la dernière.*
And I finally killed you,
Really killed you.
Now.
(*French translation: Last night, without a doubt, would be the last.)
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