A cento
I became a therapist against my will
A strange feeling of forlornness, a feeling I could not have stood
Painful isolation, quite steep and slanting
A beautiful forest which had the one drawback of seeming never to end
I have had to struggle so long
I have always been frank with you, haven’t I?
I wanted to explain the reason for my inaccessibility
I am lying here on a short leash in this filthy hole
So far I haven’t been locked up
Several people point to gaps in my face where the little girl has been cut out
She screams and screams without any self-control
Ravaged by the heat and the blood-&-thunder melodrama
Neither describable nor bearable
I felt I had known her all my life
Freud’s Beautiful Things A cento
I have some sad news for you I am but a symbol, a shadow cast on paper If only you knew how things look within me at the moment Trees covered in white blossom The remains of my physical self Do you really find my appearance so attractive? Darling, I have been telling an awful lot of lies lately If only I knew what you are doing now? Standing in the garden and gazing out into the deserted street? Not a mermaid, but a lovely human being The whole thing reminds me of the man trying to rescue a birdcage from the burning house (I feel compelled to express myself poetically) I am not normally a hunter of relics, but … It was this childhood scene … (My mother … ) All the while I kept thinking: her face has such a wild look … as though she had never existed The fact is I have not yet seen her in daylight Distance must remain distance A few proud buildings; your lovely photograph I find this loss very hard to bear The bells are ringing, I don’t quite know why What makes all autobiographies worthless is, after all, their mendacity Yesterday and today have been bad days This oceanic feeling, continuous inner monologues I said, “All the beautiful things I still have to say will have to remain unsaid,” and the writing table flooded