#63

12Out08

So I’m that man, awfully wearied, fibbing poems to no one. And I’m sitting there, then I’m standing there, wagging by the window, versing fizzles against logic, and evening comes ravening like woosh!, so I’m just this little feebly puffy boy in the toils of earnestness. Drowning night again, full of tumult and violence in its sky, and I’m standing before it, and then the light of men, scattered lights that sprang up at nightfall like starving lice gushing in the void. And that’s all, no poem can hold it for no pain can exceed it. All out.

Filed under: TEXTOS   |  Leave a Comment