Late at night, early morning
NO LIGHT
only that from the ruins still glowing on the raised background. she:
false image not my features
chimera from a thousand years and one night
were not many consumed

strides down the heap of rubble:
by her blinding sunwheel of power?
but I did get her ruins
safely over and done with

visibly exhausted, but not injured:
even if she never fell
only those who fell for her

arrives at the bottom:
I left her —

nearly loses her balance:
not deluded

not a clue where to look
only hope-staring eyes

RED DAWN SKY ON THE EASTERN HORIZON
goes with conviction in this direction.
A tallish wall, along it:
resembling me this picture
in a traced outline
she was ideal and many had been
struck by her

Breach
HARD BLACK LIGHT in the glow of her once incomparable figure
it did something to many
but then got right out of shape

she proceeds:
I leave her — deluded

The wall decreases in size, eventually disappears but continues underground.
(NO SUBTERRANEAN LIGHT)

Midday

A black block bearing an idol modelled after her, a weapon worked in as part of the neck; beside it a control post next to
a red-bordered poster.

she stops and looks at it:
beneath the wild scratches of a pen
I seem to see my own face

IN THE LIGHT OF THE PRESS

she realizes this is an illusion.
The idol melts, the block crumbles into countless little fragments
she turns around and goes:
I am leaving her — deluded

EVENING
The Monday Ballet
my idealized profile,
she, in the crowd, unrecognized:
a scissor-cut silhoutte in flag cloth
through the hole in a banner
the crowd seemingly
hope-staring at the sunrise
on the western horizon

SUNSET
I am leaving her — not deluded It is not here what I unflaggingly seek
and it is not nowhere — then anywhere
NIGHT, ABSOLUTE DARKNESS
FIELD OF TOMBS
she fumbles her way through:
Various corpus delicti, strewn over the path as strumbling blocks and snares, on the whole completely unrecognizable — mutilated or rapidly decaying.

PHANTASMAGORIAS WHICH RANDOMLY FLARE UP:
(any similarity with her is accidential and unintentional). Men badly disguised as women with heavily painted lips beneath their beards. Blue or green guerrilla combat eye shadow. Some carying rifles, following an old habit, aiming up into the black sky, shooting coloured, stupid birds. Others smiling idiot-proof at the flower in the barrel.
A couch.
Orgon accumulators.
Joan Baez.
Wild and howling come-on-tators in sacrificial lamb dessous en gros and in a pack.
Spirits of the orphaned ghosts of europe-haunting spectres.
Universal know-all do-gooder ideas.
An answering machine for final requests as a self-firing device.
Stool.
And at last, for the last time, a hedge of burning bushes
— LIGHT FROM THE BURNING HEDGE —
chanting an old litany:
IamthatIamthatIamthatIam…

walks past. INCLINATION
I am leaving them — not deluded After the hedge has completely burnt down there only remains
GREY TWILIGHT
of uncertain origin, from somewhere from back and beyond

It is not here what I unflaggingly seek

ascends the hill:
it is not elsewhere — so nowhere —
where else?
THE LIGHT BECOMES STRONGER —
her silhoutte gets smaller and smaller, her contours can now hardly be perceived:
the blinding is increasing
and so at last over
I have returned to the place
where I`ve never been before

exit she.