-Fuck, fuck, fuck-
No poetry of balance
Can translate the
Weight of the heart...
...A man is a stone
(Unqualified to stow)
Upon which fire blazes
Not heating the hub.
To express
He writes
But of language, of course,
He omits the core
He figures speech, figures that speech will
stand for something else
He
Filters,
Veils,
People often cannot understand
Did he mean ‘bananas’ with ‘bananas’
Or the moon caught between the earth and the sun?
What a waste, then,
The elevated, the precise, the chosen one.
It implies pretension
(one can choose to feel)
(one can decide the scale, the degree)
But complies to limitation.
If I cannot understand
If I need a book to explain your book
And we see the same world, we live
Together, at the same time,
If
I cannot make your words mine
Fuck you
And fuck the force that
You are not fighting back.
Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
Monday, September 25, 2006
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1 comment:
There are no books to explain anyone's books. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes.
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