Translated by Shorsha Sullivan (book includes DVD with audio performance directed by Piers Burton-Page, slide show of sculptures by Fritz Unegg, and video by Gudrun Bielz). Shoestring Press, March, 2005.
Nyctivoe, pages 1-5 .
Night had already fallen when I passed to the other side of the station and went out on to the road. It was still raining, a little. Along the bridge closed archways, I reached the dim light read the notice outside and entered behind two others. A large space in the half-darkness all around me, on the ground not above ten people, some of them with dogs. On the left the wall is demolished. Two more coming from there. Three. Opposite a blue lamp. On the right a green one. In front of the stage women in black, funny somehow, one younger. Three around a cut-down barrel. The other one is carrying newspapers, she puts them inside, sets them alight, the flame goes out. A man passes in front of them naked to the waist with a broken brick or stone? in his hand. Red marks. He digs, further on he raises two makeshift crosses. Fixes them, in the mud, beside two tumblers. Immediately in front, in the shallow trench, a car body without a door. On the bonnet a tape-recorder, on the wind-screen a sheet of tin. A woman is sitting inside. Long grey hair, lips painted red. She pulls forward a wooden cover. Now she can only be discerned through a gap. Other bits of iron around, old machine parts. Someone draws near into the light, haggard, torn pullover, a Bible in his hand, and inside it some papers. Chorus, Legion, Nyctivoe, Narrator. High on the opposite wall and to the right and above, crosses spray-painted on the cement. The lights are dimmed.
NARRATOR And always, night and day in the tombs and in the mountains he was crying and cutting himself with stones. But when he saw Jesus afar off he ran and worshipped him, and cried with a loud voice, and said; what have I to do with you, Jesus, son of the most high God? I adjure thee by God, that thou torment me not. For he said unto him; come out thou unclean spirit from the man, and he asked him; what is thy name? and he answered saying; my name is legion for we are many.
CHORUS If you stop and listen in the night, heard in the dark if you hush it is heard behind those who close to you speak come other voices, lost, that wake you have not forgotten you, you turn round to listen they embrace you those who were lost gather around you, they look at you they leave again you hear this hum always at night and they come again they take you they will cover themselves with your skin they will speak to you under the earth.
NARRATOR Accounting that He was able to raise them up even from the dead
LEGION bent over near the crosses, then face down with such strokes better a little closer, moving inwards, like this; and when the brain floods I remember how I saw you last and still as if I were hearing you and feeling that I shall turn round and you will be there again. But always turning round could not see would not believe and then again like footsteps my life is recollection's broad palm, it is the scallop cracked beneath the sun that shadow in it which I begin to bury where you whisper. Yet the sea disinters. And there were coming moments when this shell was holding out no more had withered and I was feeling pockets filled with rubble and I underneath at a loss, and kept going the seagulls were tangled at my feet were biting and I was falling in the middle of the road. Now the same noise again as if it unravels inside like a fire under wood that's breaking this coughing within then every so often the cries once more on, the voice from their wings to fill me with fear I am afraid of what the silence will bring. Could anyone make out, between here something falling, like sea still to carry me to your side the other voices to die out they come then, if I sleep start of unbearable shadows. And when I was awake again new ghosts begin to rush on strangers had planted them around me, you wouldn't escape from these gallows voices would take me along to other dreams, and the people around me digging holes were sowing iron and light and searching for something . Then I saw I could no more could not bear them around me wandering to all the places struggling to stay somewhere a city passing brightly lit streets weeping. But here where the dead are together, I came back set up my home here, and sit on the marble, and seek a gentler god, and in these visions, to find a little more warmth in them, from where she stayed footsteps, your own voice. from above noise of a train
CHORUS Every night the dogs return the sea-gulls come down along with them he stretches by their side what voice will be heard a corner in his body beside me now on the slab which was his bed he left the stones on it with hyssop leaves he sweeps it clean what lips to take a drop - he pours a little blood a drop - he says for something that foams in his flesh and he's there again beside me and I must stand below
a stake driven into the earth distant the memory of each moment when I stared into the sky no, the god who soiled us does not await us decay will take us with it like an angel inside it all men take their ease those whom I was mourning below there remained only the death's head of life. Yet something moves up in the ruins of a well at the breast, by those who stoop above me let me be held a little longer a little longer to stay together here to such as he marked and those
let me lean against the earth my forehead and if I should hear them again mutter the words I used to hear from my own folk then