bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 3 (1986) — Fall 1986 // Automne 1986, p. 17
I have a holy fool inside.
He weighs each word I say.
And when I talk coherently
I feel him drift away,
Walk into the midnight fog,
And wrap himself around
A derelict, a pimp, a fag
For company underground.
Or make a holy sacrifice,
Idle in the streets once more,
Wearing an uncertain face,
Starving with the poor.
He calls himself a prince.
I thought the race was dead.
His genealogy has, since
A century, been said
To carry in its veins
Clear traces of the mad.
Prince Madness, tell me,
when you speak
Through foam upon your lips,
Are you the frontispiece of God,
Or just a human lapse?
I beg you, take this fool away,
And bury him afar.
1am well enough to face the day
Without another prayer.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 3 (1986) — Fall 1986 // Automne 1986, p. 17. Read the rest of this issue →
