•
Rating: When nature unveils its horrible forms, unfurling an absurd carpet before one's steps, there must be a bard, without eyes or soul, standing at the muddy crossroads, unsteady on the legs and monolithic in his foolish art, created with the purpose of narrating the new nakedness of reality. The bard must reach the perfect reproduction of the low and buzzing grin that strikes at the head and knees, that transforms the lipless skull we become, of the cry of perfect apathy that assails the air around the jaws of those who cannot continue along the narrow stony path of existence.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
you cannot say, or guess, for you know only
a heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
and the dry stone no sound of water.
They are the beats of a subterranean or supernatural heart roaming the wooded undergrounds or in the dancing feasts of dark worms severed at the head, they are the sighs of Man who shakes his garments across centuries devoid of hope, walking with abnormal strides and running carrying under his arm the enclosed fetus of his nonexistent elsewhere. They are the inhabitants of the swamp, piano and oboe players, those mosquitoes that spend their whole lives against blind lanterns and dark street corners.
They are the creators' cockroaches leading the world towards a silent dream, rotating endlessly around the center of this universe of tears and incense. Silent Dreams, and we are beyond the columns... Ma misi me per l'alto mare aperto, setting out and hitting every tibia and femur present on the narrow and foreign path, repeated for thousands of miles with terrifying symmetry. The Absurd hides in hope, conscious of everything and cynical as a jaundiced dog... They never hope... when the fire warms your fragile entrails with cascades of wine hope grows until it becomes large as the monolith, abnormal heap of debris and garbage, scratched by jackal paws and wrapped in the ethereal veil of peace and beauty, when the fire warms your entrails the Absurd seems distant... and then only vomit between you and nothing. Uncoordinated creature that rises like the summer sun and dies like summer, have mercy on our horror, and of the crusts on our filthy faces, and imprints on our foreheads a seal that will be a pass for us against the nights spent questioning the fire and the river, pretend to ignore our passage and leave us to the light of the lost Eden... before summer closes behind us and can no longer weld itself, like scorching metal, to our destinies...
The Absurd has this face. While we hear the insignificant beating, our voices bead with sweat and our hands fall bit by bit, forgotten bandages of leprosy in the course of insignificant and desperate years, and our eye sockets fill with nightmares and the veins of our eyes wither like carnations in the sun... phrases traced by gnarled hands of deformed monsters fix our gazes on the tapestries raised by darkness and our ears become fleshless in this doom hiss that is fleshless and uncoordinated, repeated by low voices of cave and gray sky, with no other mastery than to usher us into the grotesque void of the universe.
Did I perhaps sleep while others suffered? Am I perhaps sleeping at this moment? Tomorrow, when I seem to wake up, what will I say of this day?
Loading comments slowly
