The end looms.
She walks
into the room,
pressure’s
on.
Can you
feel her behind your back,
upon your shoulders,
slowly wrecking you down?
She’s a
driller.
She’s a
human’s chopper.
She’s the
crown
of spines you’re wearing.
She soon
seems to find you half as boring
as she is,
so she
leaves,
but not
without not leaving a hole in your left leg and a bunch of other shit.
You crawl
to a safe place where you’re unapproachable.
There’s red
everywhere.
Lock the
door,
sweep the
dirty floor,
you’re
going to sleep there.
No-one will
disturb your rest in red.
The end
looms.
Don’t be
afraid.
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.
don't I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I walked down the stairway and
into it.
-Charles Bukowski.
Efectivamente esas presencias en las cosas y en los espacios, existen y dan miedo.
ResponderEliminarHm que para cada uno sea una cosa. Yo sé lo que "ella" es para mí.
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