Saturday, May 05, 2007

What's perfection?

The love of the Body of man or woman balks account—the body itself balks account;
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.

Walt Whitman, 'I Sing the Body Electric'

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To his father

(after Tu Fu)

The note books have faded to yellow
The rubbers don't listen no more
The ski tracks are blown away and
The TV screen dishevelled
At a dump

The pupils have turned into parents and
The incineration ovens turned cold.
There are no longer a living
Memory of the English classes and
The red pen's orders

The trying steps of friends in dance are forgotten and
The mistress' painted cheek
Changed to dust in the river of eternity.
What remains after the passing
Of centuries? What was me?


chewing gum

-- for lit-ideas

Dead bureaucrats sailors
Dead poets teachers
Oh how I have suffered for this poem

The voices will never stop
Dispose of your objects you say
Dead fishermen scholars
I can only write how I write

My child is hanging from a tree
I put him there
Don't look at me now
While I eat the evidence

Dead people's voices speak through me
Every sentence is a betrayal
I dream what I dream

- phatic
(traslated from hisself)