I have whispered very slowly: Pourquoi partir encore? Pourquoi encore?
This journey from town to town, from language to language, from book to book, from body to body, is an intravenous sun turning around unknown possibilities like our starving wild silence. Does my heart have aerial roots? Does my brain chemistry allow such a borderline reality?
Sophia, all my skin is deeply written and I cannot decipher it. Our bodies flow and their temperature explodes. Study the geometry of wildfire, study the grammar of anxiety, study the history of nakedness and you will reach wisdom. A stormy wind is forming—within, without. Can I drink it smoothly before my final burning?
I was praying inaudibly and bleeding invisibly: Serre-moi, encore! (...) Sur la bouche, encore! My memories do not cohere. Neither do nights agree every day. All disappearance encloses an inverted birth of discontinuous verbs and nouns. Sufferings and imaginings have a peculiar topography. Sensing my random arrivals and departures increases my thirst. The world is nothing but a story of thirsty bodies, and every body mouths on other bodies. No emergency exit exists. Neither do emergency entrances.
The threshold of metamorphosis vibrates. Mouth-to-mouth. Nothing can convert fire into ashes nor wind into rock inside our veins.
Your eyes taste like boats loosely anchored off coast, crying for future waves. My salty perspiring is an absurd path of fragmented intensities, hungering for something to love. If you touch my chest, your truth will undo my labyrinth.
1 comment:
XI
Like to a ship that storms urge on its course,
But its own trials our soul is surer made.
The very things that make the voyage worse
Do make it better; its peril is its aid.
And, as the storm drives from the storm, our heart
Within the peril disimperilled grows;
A port is near the more from port we part –
The port whereto our driven direction goes,
If we reap knowledge to cross-profit, this
From storms we learn, when the storm’s height doth drive –
That the black presence of its violence is
The pushing promise of near far flue skies.
Learn we but how to have the pilot-skill,
And the storm’s very might shall mate our will.
(Fernando PESSOA, English poems, “35 sonnets”)
That storm is overwhelming you
How can I help it?
I’m here
quiet
patiently
waiting for a ship
waiting for you…
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