Thursday, September 07, 2006


It feels as though one were racing with God withal
In a bachelor's party
So that everyone could hearken to our pleads
And accounts of different follk-tales
Of well too-known people
In a family portrait
That makes our talking believeable
And in those alleys
Marked everywhere by quotations
The days sleep inside a curdle of confort
That wasn't either gratuitous or fortuitous
But a mere sketch of a sculpture
That one didn't mean to complete
Speaking with a solid voice
As to resemble one stone next to the other
In a conversation of Titans
Tasting some authenticity
That in its truthfulness summons death
For another party in an undisclosed location
Seemly vain for pilgrims
And recondit for us
Retelling stories that make us very unproud
Very unnatural
And even sore
From unempty glasses
Framed in white pages
That no one dares to read
Fearing translating himself just too intimately
As to drift away in a tiny tea-pot
That is unlike others
With that holder of silver imitation
Sailing away into the unnight
Coming into light from a vacuum in the stage-set
Hairdressing pens
Sharpening ourselves with time
Beneath the music of Nietzsche's sister
Beneath an arp
Dying slowly unto our coffee
Craving for a view of the day
Of the day
When I lied
When I held
When I set unfree
Because it was easier back then
To be somebody else
Than it is today
To be somebody like you
Less an anonymous figure
With a face
That hearkens to the smells of the eye's glimpse
Radically new
With Heidegger
Toiling for some light

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