Παρασκευή, 31 Οκτωβρίου 2014

baldness



***


 image The Nostalgia of the Poet

Back in the days of scorched poetry, my heady heroes thumped noisily at the edge of lyricism - their lysergic shadows in and out of the wealthy salons, bowed to applaud and pressure; their lines split to double or treble meanings like forks jammed into the brain of a dead bull - I had no problem in learning to walk.



It started when it occurred to me that I would never find words equivalent to the up-in-smoke, standing outside, on the wrong side of the curtain. Inside my thorax, love sang with timbres of excitement evoking birds hurtling below the ceiling of a lunatic’s room, failing to see the gap in the window…



Once aware of one’s blinkers, what does one do? The suggestion came from Plato, I believe, who was the first to say that in order to truly experience you must sweep away all prejudice and to convey it you must use your tongue as a broom. After discarding almost everything, I got nothing for nothing.



I went back and rummaged in the garbage bin to salvage what I could. It stank, stuck in my fingers, inconsumable. I was prepared to sell games, my body, to delete old inscriptions on my skin and zap phantoms of daddy in my head. What I couldn’t foresee was that I’d get sick with all that jazz.







These are blank times to live in. He who helps no one but himself is the morally unencumbered model. I don’t fit. I find it much easier to undermine than help myself. Hence, I treated literacy as a form of self-vandalism (it always is, only, I made it obvious). It wouldn’t be such a novel idea now.



Silence could never be my style either, I know that. While I’m awarded the prize, these realisations feel like an artificial light illuminating my head. Now, if hair were ideas, I'd feel a greater need to borrow a hat and might not be so proud of my baldness. 

Is that the case? I let my idiocy speak for itself.



















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