Versione Italiana | Nota biografica | Versione lettura |
though it is not just skin we must slough off
and forget, but sanity and its very fabric
that ties a world around us
cramped as any strait-jacket
ever was;
there are memories of being summer sun children
on beaches best forgotten, like overdoses
and victims, nostalgia is for dead things
and what living is [,] is the ultimate twisted peak
where the great sheltering birds swoop down to us
and stone falls away like memory, like Psyche
and their beaks are full with the superfluous,
we give them our meaningless, our meat
and lie naked under no sun – naked,
broken, perfected, undone
today is one cold shadow
over the burning snow,
the curious passion of pavements
under feet that incite meaning in them,
like the memory of my own death
i have already forgotten
as not worthy of any recollection,
the arcane mysteries of canine defecation
instead of memories in me: words
have taught me to be empty, once,
to be free
the wind says nothing,
which is everything, full nothing
enough, sufficient for the whole
unrealistic city
where little is all the living,
rats in all the sad alleys
is love enough, the wind falls silent
and prefers not to touch