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V.A.

Like old

mean beetles,

like old

men in battle,

like egos: solid anvils,

like families: lethal weapons,

like these: them,

begotten sons

who begat daughters

of a land, of a bordered plot

on the globe, the dirt,

the house, the property

which begot

them

both,

these two

bitter enemies

from two

separate places,

furiously blaze,

as the time

for darkness,

is far

from arrived.

 

And the sun

quakes,

in its heat

rippling sights

and

knocking particles,

which deter the next

knocked,

and which enforce

the continued sensation of

warmth

continued,

of aversion

continued,

rising,

screened,

for its impeccable quality,

against

nobody in

general or

specific

to announce, or to gain

against

consequences, which are

soothsaid

in time,

nullified.

Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic

and more egalitarian,

but are sworn,

like the sun,

against the monotony,

of repetition,

of indistinct days;

like these:

them,

the enemies,

they

are

engaged,

aged,

unteachable

and

spoiled.

They are always

immersed

in

vexed

states,

always in competition.

Hope

is

the

souls

united

never again

as much

as the static,

single dimension,

alone,

impeccable,

impossible,

for its possibility

is drawn by He

who

spews forth

lumens

next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these

will have to suffice, having no escape

from the projected

source

of energy.

The metal heads

of garden rakes,

weapons

thrown

at devils

in the sweltering heat

of hell,

the Inferno

that holds a

first-person

point of view,

a dream, alongside

superheroes, allied,

but who are,

nevertheless,

without their unique

and exceptional powers,

pros and willing deviants

from the celibacy,

the weight,

the unoriginal paint

that collides

in

each

stroke,

making what

appears

null,

and the array

but one,

and supposed,

so that then

are the weary

and soulful mergers

which corrupt

and meander throughout,

polluting,

as

it

were,

the tranquility,

the wrenched service,

of the destined

machine,

of a million

trajectories,

homespun threads,

woven

into

a

million

miserable

microfibers,

unanswered

queries

that were

held back

in

fear,

and

were

never

asked,

and remain

even

now

sorry.

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Written by
robert-scherer
Published
Jan 17, 2010
Lines·Words
163·336
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