Friday, May 1, 2009

Being, and being some more

For the longest time, there laid nothing of the kind
under the onion-like skin,
way below the streams of crimson agony
proclaiming silence, while embracing warm bodies, tight
throes at eludes, I kept on embracing
for without them, it was just another cold body
shivering, at the rasping of nails, clawing into the silver lining
Pleasure perhaps had its own planet
entitled to its abyss.

Fruits of Paradox, utterly sweet
with an after taste of false awakenings
at its vegetated state of delusions.
This is where it all begins and ends
through an incomplete metamorphosis
or an ignored nothingness of an empty Cocoon.
Who is afraid
of this creature that crawls out of a broken cycle?
One can catches it loosing all sensations,
for everyone to see
this public display of disaffection.

Why is it that everything is always taken so literally?
Asked someone, impatiently.
And then,
I overheard Sartre and Foucault,
shouting joyfully:
- "Hell is other people"
perhaps when
- "The Soul becomes the prison of the body"!

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