a poem by William Crawford

Klaus Kinski was an extreme and complex character. Human molten lava. Yet also lithe sentiment and looking soul. Such a passionate way of doing life and of dreaming art should be saluted.

Beguilement (or what Klaus said to the Butterfly)

at first
you were
a sweet irritation
to me,

butterfly

filament thin wings
their papery sound

a flutter of
almost fleshy
nothingness

drawn to me
as tongue is
to bad tooth

why are you
so unafraid?

is it the wind
that makes you shiver
like this,

or just the
shock of contact,

butterfly?

so many have seen
this net of darkness
pouring from my eyes
in torrent, in tear,

collecting in
reflective pools
pregnant and still

so few
have delved
below
the surface

investigated the
enlarged heart,
lent an ear to
the simple song
that beats beneath –

a restless rhythm
of survival

pain
in bubbles
rising
only to burst

what have you seen,
what have you heard,

butterfly?

can it be
my eyes –

sometimes twin tyrants raging,
other times tapped hydrants
freely flowing

a confluence of summer colors:
cooling children
leaping, and loping,
laughing through
sudden rainbow,
softly shot –

have these old tired eyes
become a light source
for you,
only you,

butterfly?

have you sent your
milky infant eyes
with all their warmth
past this mask I wear,
this flash frozen façade,

to a place where
the ice is
finally melting
in seismic drip?

am I both flower,
and flame,
to you,

butterfly?

my throbbing palm,
closed in an instant,
could disrupt
your graceful arc,
endanger your
empyreal (f)light,
with the weighted crush
of calculated impact,

butterfly

a final metamorphosis,
or maybe
just a
dreamless sleep

awaits with
a killing stillness

an unbending end
to this
beguilement

the easy music
and sweetly
confusing amusement
we now share

here where the light
is soft and strong

does it not
seem brighter now,

butterfly?

prismatic wings
unfolding smile

this odd gentling
this curious metamorphosis

I feel my blood
turning into ballet

I am a child again.

“I knew there were, in myself, the souls of millions of people who lived centuries ago; not just people but animals, plants, the elements, things, even, matter. All of these exist in me.” — Klaus Kinski