29 de abril de 2017

Present Tense

Na vida, há escrita. A escrita e nada mais.

Mas escrever é uma monstruosidade...

E o que resta é tempo presente.

Dance, Dance.

End of transmission

As words die out, their absence take me in, to the worst of nothing left. 
At last my strangerism is done. 
And along with it the anti-pioneerism that seemed to define me.

All the nouns that once colered this life.
Living fragments. Compass points.
Gone. And I am left. 
Restless. Rootless. Silenced.

So it all ends. By-it-self. As seasons change. 
As night turns to day.
And what a night it has been!

Oh skillful page turner,
This notebook is now shredded, its pages torn into infinite little pieces.
For I know those words will never live again. 
As this body of mine will never hold them, as it once did.
And I realize it, startled.

For I am left, bodiless; wordless one.
Stripped from the little dots that used to gracefully fill out this blank page that I am.

22 de abril de 2017