About that cold, makes stalactites and stalagmites in ventricles of the heart, in the lungs, in the pharynx, as if the entire body becomes a frozen cloud.
About that heat, makes us sweating, instead of the water, a blood.
About animals that will be extinct,
so we begin to strip each other’s skin,
and get used from now and on, to the human flesh.
About the trees that will leave the land to live in the sky,
such as a desert dream, paper aeroplanes that fall only by burning.
About the mountains that will dive into the earth,
so the rang of the vision becomes just a huge surface of the “there”, of the “not here”, extents uselessly, without a bump, without an intimacy, in all directions.
About the light poles, that will all become gallows,
we dangle from them, such as a Pendulum, trying to follow the light.
About the remains, all the remnants of daylight,
how in the empty streets, nightly, become alive, run with air.
About the overripe fruit, before it got squeezed, putrefies,
seeps, instead of wine, weeping.
About the straw that even when it burns, defends the shattering,
not as a voice or a status,
but as a philosophy, an existence, a scream.
About the smell of cattle dung,
as the morning moisture transforms it into a fragrance that knows how the soil pulls the farmer out of sleep,
dragged from his nose by the seduction – the smell.
Oh off the smell
Oh on the smell
Oh that is the smell
Oh it is the smell
the pure raw connection with everything,
it’s almost to be everything,
it’s almost to be the “thing” itself.
About the ulterior call that the sun launches at twilight,
how the entire nature enters the coma of night funeral music:
chirruping, howling, mooing, whooping, cawing, squealing, roaring, neighing, hissing, croaking, trumpeting, murmuring, braying, screeching, hooting, purling, buzzing, swishing;
rustle, while the trees tremble a dew, because of the severity of this painful beauty of the heart
and then how all this disappears, by the first sound of a vrooming engine, of the first human being wakes up, thinking that he is the kingdom for all this;
About those voices – anomaly: speech, language, wailing, whiz;
noise, as the real voice of humans,
and blood as the only odour/sign, of their existence area.
About real stories, real dreams, real imaginaries, real words, real sorrows, real laughs,
the real orgasm groans, the seasonal ones, which may pass years, before they been released, in a hurry, in a dark alley, near an abandoned harbour, by the sailors,
about them, the sailors,
their real lives, that buried there, among the shipwrecks
in the deepest bottoms of water,
which only whales know them, repeat them, tell them, through nature, through time,
when wood, even in impermeable water, also defends shattering,
defends trees as “a concept, a permanence, a theme” as living particles that do not die: as burning straw or a wood that do not stop trying to float, even after thousands of centuries of drowning,
do not stop shattering,
as a song that lasts forever,
on the tongue of the whales.
About Leukocyte, Nature’s defences in us,
how little by little being extinct, because of drugs,
so we transform to machines that their lives are prolonged by industry.
About how wood knows, even in the bitter cold, to safeguard the song of warmth,
because it is the descendant of a beginning of love
the descendant of trees.