mort mot juste

junho 11, 2007

a day in the life

Hail! to the heart-thief. Ladies and gentlemen we are landing on solid ground. Meat inside, our skins. Chew on it: bones. Hair on our heads, dreams underneath. Empty, large, endless; the shiny gaze of illusion. Wake up, brush your teeth, let the sun in. No sun, still time for sleeping. Birds don't sleep. They nest. The careless ones electroshocked on the long wires. Good prey for street dogs.
Listen, songs. Do they mean. Hoarse voices hooves of horses. Cars, smoke. Decaying bodies that still move. Walk. Ants kidnapping ants from other anthouses. Crime doesn't pay. Ideas, ideals, sleepless. Turn in your bed. Think of something, write it down, tear the paper. A thunderstorm in the summer. Autumn will come. Leaves in the grass, giant butterflies lost in flight up high lower dead. Without a funeral, mourn the moth. Blueland of red sky, more lies, your feet kick away the blankets. Time to rise, time to die, to live to become flesh. Mindless. Powerful. Capable of this and that. No work today, death is an everlasting sunday. Sundays spent in the park, long gone childhood never knows when it ends. A lake, seemed so big. A muddy puddle now with newspaper ships. Bitter coffee, oh such a long long life. Not enough time though. Day-old bread becomes toast. Expired jelly and hammering nails inside the neighbour's house. The cold kills the bugs. Their spirits wingless, ironic and cradled in dirt. Moving snake-like, dissolving in rain like sugar. Cold coffee throw it out. Now comes noon you haven't left the kitchen table. A coat for lunch, eating because you have to eat. Your mother used to say. Chilly wind. Give the beggar some change. He hasn't shaved his beard for years. The sun blows clouds away, aching eyes, wander around. Downtown, cheap snack selling places, roaches. Step on them they become jelly. And even roaches have wings. You have no wings. See the people passing by the passers-by. The color in their clothing, the animals they wear. Primitive men. Sleep while you're awake. More coffee and then night. Comes down from outerspace; house of nights. Starless but your eyes. Eye the people now, they're shadows. If you hadn't left your house would the world keep spinning. You love the night because it darkens your face. Become no-one. No-one you know. Shaking hands with gloves to protect you from human contact. Clear skin and white from the cold. The way home
i forget.

maria 2:36 PM 4 vociferando estavam



ao rés da fala