Sunday, January 22, 2012

there's a devil waiting outside your door [how much long?]

there's a devil
for Ana Cristina, Eabha, Imen, Setty, and Trian
… in front of the evanescence of a rainbow, imaginary or simultaneously under a petty [bed]room’s light, nightmares being rekindled by him, the Hobbler, leaned over a tree, embroiled by this-or-that cloistered realm – oniric? or simply clear sighted...
… a conviction, here turns out a haughty conviction over his whole misadjusted, proparoxytone route and for something he can neither reaffirm nor take on, while one of that sooth is ineluctably distressed over his own zigzags in life as if he has naturally stumbled into faces he unlikely put up with or could no longer wear…
… springing from his long-standing, erratic “ain’t know what do to”, and blowing up in his no or many guises all those “what is said and what is cursed by”, here is he, the Misfit Man, and his overwhelming traces – bandit hands to put a spell on, twisted eyes to follow up but impossibilities, tripping legs to make him flute even when he only appears to fuck off [and further, much further from – his dreams?]…     


 machine hands , picking up nausea from the ashes he clacks along day by day, usually talk to uncomfortable pockets, which have been promptly designed from above to dance him, the Erratic, and all his other equals to the end of [cries?]…
 dazed eyes , leading to nowhere but that same magic door he steps into, in complete despair, for not being lunatic that much so this all – reality along with its misanthrope cars – makes too much sense and then fetches him by luring him into too much crude bagatelles…
 corrupted legs , tired of walking ahead of himself without, at least for a trap, letting him do what he is supposed to want much more closely – to stroll in the dawn of his own misfortunes… 

 there , in that silent realm,  lie the stories  he intends to unwrap… they are waiting to be written,  paralyzed but not in despair , fresh and  untouched , alone but  close – to his dazed hands, his machine legs, his tired eyes… 


2 comments:

Setty Lepida said...

Carol, you must have read my mind while writing this extraordinary piece !!! permission to repost, I LOVE IT _

Carol P. said...

Setty, dearest! Beautiful that you liked the text... You were on my mind while writing, for sure... Please, ma chère, it's yours, the text, you can dance with it, talk to it, dismantle it too, why not, post and repost... in this case, I would be extremely honored, you know that... huh? :) Love, Art & Chaos, my dearest friend! Missing you...