I am the collector of queerness and terminations,
the ones that, late in the night, fall down from the trees
and try to turn over on their souls again,
unwanted, forsaken and absorbed in stillness.
At some point you might say that I am weird!
But aren’t we all the strangest offspring of our dreams?
Do you need a two-headed, freak-show circus wrestler
walking and growling towards you to believe in it?
“History is written by the victors, but the great art
is made by the vanquished”, one of my teachers said.
And I know that the mistral is just a cold, northerly wind,
but I keep my tin box with the gun inside clean and prepared.