A |The| Friend of Volker Nolde
In the Silence Without Making Myself Heard
In the silence without making myself heard.
Tighten it pierces between the dilated fingers
Listening to that which I do not say,
When I say screams in my head that only I can hear without crying saying.
Skinning screams in the mouth like breaking the silence
Either crying for crying sake thus crying I have just cried that.
In this deluge of image-screams that rips me all day long plus half a day more.
Signs of rubble
When the bitter light of the day ends up raptured
We will grope alongside each other under mortality and misery, and our faces will not stir up skin exchanges
Just kisses and haughty and harmoniously endless words.
I began to look at the gaunt books I'd left behind coating her after she was dead.
First her then her. they did not leave much.
Just like the way blood is formed Im died imprisoned, without me even suspecting it
And she did not leave much. Maybe saying a lot. mitigating the caws of the crows.
As when one dies with nothing and no memory and the poems stroll inside the orchestra pit like it was Any visit to Grosse Hamburger Strasse.
As if it were confused inside my bones and as if there was poetry there.
Where the weaved pores blow me Tannhauser
If all this is nothing almost nothing.
I do not remember the blood raining like a stoning before such a winding gesture
But I do remember my skeleton being part of that garden
Do not ask me how nor why. swallowing a consanguinary saliva,
For a moment do not add even one more feeling to the darkness.
Do not look too much to the beginning of hope, it's not worth it...
Turn to the wall without fully hugging it
And let us glide composedly a razor across our wrists as a form of defamiliarization
Our I sweat that increasingly emerges.
Let us not overshadow our eyes with repeated strokes any more ,
So that their nostalgic entrails may be covered in decapitated memory which
They let them use the house where everything weighs to them in the scrotum as a consecutive end... Tearing off the empty flesh?!
That which gave me much immeasurable pleasure had to make him feel
To an insidious audience.
And Im ?!
The uncommon breeze from afar spits in our mouth without getting lost
And does it not unravel in mathematical domains that revolve in nature?!
It gathers with us, as all the bells gather in an ethereal void.
Cisplatin still collects the pain pregnant with my blood.
So disproportionate the dead clung to me. They bend me to steep death
But no arrow can name me. Me neither.
Where it was not, like an echo between echoes.
I do not say: that was yesterday. Useless. Foolishness. Almost intoxicating.
Foolishness that is true of madness is the reason. Or rather, quasi-reason.
And the incorporeal rapture! what rapture? Rapture of. Which? Which therefore both.
One day I will ask painfully. About the overflow. What to overflow in the mirror?
Hitting or caressing - both in the mirror. The skin. To the empty anonymous overflow of the mirror of both of them.
I am her only I sweat which rests in the resinous absurdity.
Engrossed I sweat the only one without I sweat. Spacing who else but me her I sweat. Who.
The skin that hangs inwards itself even the inert I sweat. Even fear.
It is a whole fear to interpose exudation.
Accomplices in the same rubble shapeless fear had not deserted.
Which was it? Which? Welcome to my rubble?
Is it suffocating enough for both to tie memory metaphors? Interstice of this virulence. This dereliction, and this virulence and dereliction, dereliction. That one. From this smell of memory.
The way this moves forward, or backwards, or does not move forward. It remains undisturbed. Extinguishing life's etymology.
Something like the clearance and the unperturbedness about it.
Distinct reverberation something like not anything, somewhat demon-possessed.
Like me just by groping opening dreams in my own faeces. Like me avoiding distressing alone, very much, because it is not easy to bury everything. Like I see the entrance and at the bottom the vacuum of gentleness.
A way of seeing with torrential blood. What a look at each other.
How horrifying it is to me with the blooming of the tragic nothing through the gentleness-death refinery.
If the skin of the absurd does not fail me...Better... If I had the skin to even fail.
Just a blazing image, in droves. It is not possible.
It is not for wishing, I acknowledge, it is not heard of that the skin-disguise would pursue me in sharpened needle.
But this whole idea of us drawing near to an indolent lotus eater mirror has condemned us to veg out in the dark.
I feel a nauseating highlighting of chemotherapy by feeling it from the intestines to the head.
I stick in the striking silence what is in their soul, a kind of not stoning what one is.
Just like me. A setting aside in order to be perfect. Just like me. A caring to be something more than an aimless mirror More putrid breath, a surging hand when lurking in the wide-open mouths and sees nothing, only the iridescent black-stifling that stirs up what is in its soul.
A process to go further I cut the cauterized eyelids that did not seem to have an end when I was born.
After 15 years, I hid early an immense bottomless scar.
In ill time to amaze myself I gave in without a roar against the one who tries to bend my dogs into the ditch.
The arid reptilian fear returned to humanize death.
Where disaffected without mercy stuck in the terminals of the maternal uterus an excrescence was originated,
A cancer has reached me in a phaeton just like Imi.
Slowly unleashing it to the chained life sewing the guttural hope to the body
And erecting a bridge, strap, still erecting ... Between the Pilgrims Choir and the sky from the edge of my heart.
In the silence without making myself heard.
Im -Im (a), mother
Imi - my mother
Lido por João Sousa Cardoso