Tuesday, February 22, 2011

What Kind Of Wood To Use For Flooring In Boat

divertissement


The moon, high and solemn, vibrating notes of an endless grief, the weary and ill-born drag dall'imbrunire until dawn, wait, start again. I'aria frozen without a breath of wind, I came in through the nostrils to the bone, distracting heartbreaking song from the moon. I came home drunk after an evening spent among the cultural discourses with Boris and a failed port to a small-town girl, very attractive profile. It was four o'clock in the morning, in those spaces that belong to the youth and to his memory, where all is quiet and could not feel anything on the way back, or maybe I was not only a poet, resigned to be deaf and dumb, resigned to never being able to embrace the blindness that gives the real view. I was, in short, in the twilight of my eight hundred staff. esthetician, decadent, libertine, obsolete prince of poets, I heard from those faces that speak half-heartedly in less enlightened corners. The thrill of the sweet sixteen, when I felt the poem speak to me, gently coming up to the ears, it was just a thing watered down. Even nostalgia was emptied of all its tragic force. After all those speeches about the winged word, lay flowers on the verse and guns, so the refusal of the overrun, the proud salute to the poetics of pastiche and democratization of the minds, exasperated by the poetry of early experimentation, I came home empty, with a bitter taste and a practice of hiring for a clerical job. As I climbed the stairs, steps sounded on the steps, funeral and heavy, as if that was the last time I could feel the staircase. From next day everything would change, up and down stairs, how to eat, cry, make the basket, everything would no longer produce any noise. I accepted the deafness, misunderstood words and their music would be completely different now.
the day after the drill, a professional torturer, extorted secrets screaming to the wood, while a slow, regular scanning of the drops in the sink and die revealed the tragedy of everyday no and I could still hear the sound of evocations, with low growing displeasure and a note of annoyance.

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