By Vera Linder
Drops raining in a bloody sea it is a brawl of bolted words. A fasting that lasted far too long. The stain of the non-repeatable whitens the throat with asphalt, it forces tonsils in statues that majestic govern dunes, silent of what one can’t be able to say, grains that are annoying polyps – creeping jellyfishes colonizing the body snapping! Slowly. At vocal cords they caress them they vibrate them they harp them they transform them in a curved instrument, mezzelune legnose d’amore, a thread. Between them. Enchanted to enchant the image. An image that among us we have of the world. There is a landscape that surrounds us of hundreds and thousands and thousands and hundreds of metallic tables that tic tic cick ciock tic tic cick ciock cover cobblestones with memories of our vital days the sigh of human contacts breathed they cover the Day – with a capital D – the one that has just started and that has always been starting tquello che scioglie il cappello senza freno schiaffandolo nella guancia sulla faccia assopita guanciale che brucia i lineamenti sempre più assopiti stupiti while we reenter in the lands in which space, blanket, is a table itself, furniture repeated and repeating personified offers, tripods dictating the rhythm of lances in the blood they break down the secret depth of glass they gush and lace something we wish would be very different. It is not enough in the present a rose a white metal under-lens the scale of steel overlooking a castle that is not a castle it is a city inside a parking lot in the room where luggage is placed it is not enough, this present, to overcome the echo of passer-by that didn’t pass by they know each other they introduced themselves in mute days. Riconosco il terrore buffo nel fondo dei tuoi occhi. Yes, recognizing funny terror deep in your eyes.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #1. To go back and read more, click here.
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