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The Author Is Dead

Juliano Zaffino - The Author Is Dead - Blog

Whalesong

Juliano Zaffino

‘All full up of this volcanic unloveableness’

‘All full up of this volcanic unloveableness’

It’s coming up, it has to. I ate a whale once
When I knew that I shouldn’t have.
It’s still inside me, perfectly indigestible,
Won’t go away.
It’s been rotting in me, just rotting away
Like it knew it was sinfully taken in.
I feel it bursting out manifesting
All the ugliness I hold within me
And without, the ugliness I wear tattooed,
Shaming me, the truth I crave
More than the comfort of ignorance –
I live ashamed. It’s not coming up.


They told me that whale was delicious
All excess and sumptuousness
But I tasted nothing devouring
I tasted nothing
And left nothing untasted, victimised
By popular lies and my own incessant greed.
I don’t know what I gained
Or why I did it, what keeps me going
With this orca-burden I desired once
That now keeps me confined,
I don’t know, I don’t know why.
I’d eat every whale plated just to pass the time
To save me from sensing my own breath
Confronted coldly with my old inertia.


Now I am become death
Or deadly
All full up of this volcanic unloveableness
Radiant heat unwanted by the veins
That it corrodes, searing, unfeeling.
All I ever ask is to be defined in the negative
To be constituted by the lack,
That vastness unparalleled
And not the whale that fills it
Or the volcano
Or the sickness
Or the sadness
Or the hatred, the great and endless hatred
That wakes me up at 3am
And fells me giant-tree-like on the couch,
The cold floor, the dust and broken glass.