The morning smelled of nausea. If smell were a sound...were it anything the senses could detect, it would be a mixture of the approximately following character:
It would be an eye trying to see through the miasma of astringent moonlight. The moonlight that betrays the luxury of its silver glow. It would be a pitiful caricature of that gleaming stream poured out from the universe into the eyes of humans every night, regardless of how heavily clouds sabotage the rays reaching distant places in these galaxies of ours.
Were the miasma a sound, it would be a solidified hint of the freshness pertinent to the purity of the dawn. Mud mixing with an appalling odor of the leaves fallen off the trees, their stale, stagnant torpor, and the sense of nothing ever being capable of making a single move. It would be a feeling of anything never having the capacity to be transformed into a version of itself that would feed the thirsty cells of hope from the indefatigable source of the much needed food.
The morning started in its usual ambivalence of the moment that cannot recognize itself. Because it looks so much like the sustained instant when the day merges with the upcoming outpour of moonlight. The morning started in a typical confusion of the deceitful milky blueishness that in the very same way tricks the day when it begins its daily descend into the lavish extravaganza of the purple invasion dreaming of the moment of its metamorphosis into the boastful onset of the orange defeating the uncertainty of the blueish-milky ambiguity.
A mile long and a thousand kilometers wide is the buffer between these two moments of self-dissolving noises. It smells of the effort of the eye attempting to see the purifying tone of the sickening feeling that never leaves one at the moments when abhorring, sulphurous raids are trying to delude themselves into thinking that their self-dissolvement could be anything but invincible.
(A thought of you is all I can think of as the tiny drops lacing your face crystallize into a snowflake flashing out from your iris a thought of a warm night.)
Thick is the mud. Loud is its smell. It is as thick as if it consisted of piles of disposed clothes saturated with ages-old evaporations of sweat, pieces of furniture that find their purpose in the process of decomposing into tiny particles that feel like invasive dark streams devouring their own illusory mechanisms. Watered down glue armed with an ambition to pass for lemonade. Filth as its own somnambulist idea of being what escapes its distasteful tendencies. Like the words that believe in being successful in the fraudulence of their erratic homonymy.
(As I remember the music of the galaxies from eons ago, I am not among the things constituting some people’s memories. Because it’s not me.)
Like all the mornings that never tire of being nauseating enough to keep the senses ever so fine-tuned to the recurring abhor at the smell that sounds like the crevices through which the benighted streams disappear. Like all the mornings awashed in the glory of the reawaken awareness that the pale blue oceanic perplexity is the akin threatening uneasiness with which its twilight counterpart shivers as it recongizes that such a realization is the crystalline streak that no words can invigorate more than it needs because it needs not. Crystalline is the streak that no words can enhance more than the nauseating knots require in order to be disentangled. Because that's what knots require. And the crystalline streak does not.
I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
It would be an eye trying to see through the miasma of astringent moonlight. The moonlight that betrays the luxury of its silver glow. It would be a pitiful caricature of that gleaming stream poured out from the universe into the eyes of humans every night, regardless of how heavily clouds sabotage the rays reaching distant places in these galaxies of ours.
Were the miasma a sound, it would be a solidified hint of the freshness pertinent to the purity of the dawn. Mud mixing with an appalling odor of the leaves fallen off the trees, their stale, stagnant torpor, and the sense of nothing ever being capable of making a single move. It would be a feeling of anything never having the capacity to be transformed into a version of itself that would feed the thirsty cells of hope from the indefatigable source of the much needed food.
The morning started in its usual ambivalence of the moment that cannot recognize itself. Because it looks so much like the sustained instant when the day merges with the upcoming outpour of moonlight. The morning started in a typical confusion of the deceitful milky blueishness that in the very same way tricks the day when it begins its daily descend into the lavish extravaganza of the purple invasion dreaming of the moment of its metamorphosis into the boastful onset of the orange defeating the uncertainty of the blueish-milky ambiguity.
A mile long and a thousand kilometers wide is the buffer between these two moments of self-dissolving noises. It smells of the effort of the eye attempting to see the purifying tone of the sickening feeling that never leaves one at the moments when abhorring, sulphurous raids are trying to delude themselves into thinking that their self-dissolvement could be anything but invincible.
(A thought of you is all I can think of as the tiny drops lacing your face crystallize into a snowflake flashing out from your iris a thought of a warm night.)
Thick is the mud. Loud is its smell. It is as thick as if it consisted of piles of disposed clothes saturated with ages-old evaporations of sweat, pieces of furniture that find their purpose in the process of decomposing into tiny particles that feel like invasive dark streams devouring their own illusory mechanisms. Watered down glue armed with an ambition to pass for lemonade. Filth as its own somnambulist idea of being what escapes its distasteful tendencies. Like the words that believe in being successful in the fraudulence of their erratic homonymy.
(As I remember the music of the galaxies from eons ago, I am not among the things constituting some people’s memories. Because it’s not me.)
Like all the mornings that never tire of being nauseating enough to keep the senses ever so fine-tuned to the recurring abhor at the smell that sounds like the crevices through which the benighted streams disappear. Like all the mornings awashed in the glory of the reawaken awareness that the pale blue oceanic perplexity is the akin threatening uneasiness with which its twilight counterpart shivers as it recongizes that such a realization is the crystalline streak that no words can invigorate more than it needs because it needs not. Crystalline is the streak that no words can enhance more than the nauseating knots require in order to be disentangled. Because that's what knots require. And the crystalline streak does not.
I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
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