The struggle between the visceral and the real
the Middle Age has retired in the
red and white cells of my blood.
In the cathedral with the pulsing walls, it has retired,
throwing and absorbing the believers over and over again,
into an absurd circuit,
through an absurd area,
feeding itself with large pieces of moon,
in its wish of to be
stealthily biting them, at night,
when the eyes of the world are sleeping
only the teeth whose who are speaking in sleep
come into view into dark,
just like a rain of meteors
rhythmically raising and descending.
the Middle Age has retired in me
my own body does not
my own body hates me
in order to exist further
it hates me.
it hurries up to break down itself
evening by evening
more and more powerful it surrounded itself
with layers of ice,
shuddering and striking and
diving itself deep in itself
to kill me in order to be able to be free
and un-killing me
to be able to, nevertheless, be lived by somebody.
But everywhere in me there are waiting
and processions darken, ample
with a halo of pain.
Pain of breaking in halves of sounds
of the world,
the strike my eardrums, two.
Pain of breaking in halves
of the smells of the world,
to touch my nostrils, two.
And you, oh you, rebuilding into inside,
you, matching of halves , just like
the embracement of man with his woman,
oh you, and you, and you, and you,
of broken halves,
with slow flame, so slow
that it lasts almost a life,
the lightening of stakes, the waited,
the predicted, the saving,
lightening of the stakes.
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