Wherever they are split into two sleep hive, exposing
city
giant honeycomb made by bees insane
is not difficult to recognize my cell from other cells.
My house is the one that never comes.
behind the walls leaving behind the open;
approaching walls then a scene where the storms howl
inscribed with burning hazards that are like torches in the dark,
with black silhouettes that are tested on the faces of terror and absence:
trophies collected at random from the heady night trips .
And now this setting sun, as bright as one that returns
, incomparable, Aurol my dead?
This house has no roots or ties, and suddenly
walk, walk like a sleepwalker
from the sand to the sea ch
echoing his chilling laughter tumbling pebbles,
or brushing against a sudden trembling winter, or
whispering incomprehensible formulas against the evils of the moon
that soon passed from side to side.
you not see how tearing slips between two scaffolding flanks ghost? There is also no cohesion or
certainties. Where there was a blind
wall opens a door to the red
as an irresistible invitation into the chambers of torture high.
windows overlooking a bright December
groping slide to frame the marauding gray surround me with their faces
hole left in the glass and its insistent signal
too pushy.
Not to mention a spot where you can sleep with the herb alone.
It lifts the roof and falls on me that debris curtain that closes the sky
or me sucking huge yawn of a foreign night.
runners sink into the rooms of looting arms and platforms
and escape with their load of bales that go beyond.
cracks often arise for which I contemplate my invisible witness spend
and foreign chambers next to my bed with their people, their dogs, their chores
like statues carved in the current runaway.
The soil is a beast that awaits me with open mouths.
And always, everywhere, the rustle of wings
planning around my head, trot
this vermin in flight to nowhere, flapping rags
this agitated by the breath relentless death. Ordeal
appealed as a tribunal of stars,
tests that someone deigns to grant an intimate place in this world.
I, with the shadow to the neck.
No. 3 of the night drifting (1984)
0 comments:
Post a Comment