Papasquiaro’s “Advice from 1 Disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger fanatic”

At the moment 1 hit song

                entangles its rhythm

with the rain’s strange samba

& 1 fatally fleeing order is established

so they can continue to dominate the scene

                hair in disorder /

                        enormous eyes moist

& as if risen from the very chiaroscuro of the night

1 girl appears her muddy fists against her thighs

repeating 1 / 2 / 3 times:

I am not 1 sex object / I am not that you robots /

                        I’m alive / like 1 forest of eucalyptus

here where the norm is to be implacably nice

                                to each other

                & this is the lesser evil

The park trembles / my inner steps carry me

through the streets of 1 green seaport

                        the natives call Mescaline

                1 sensation unknown until now

like being scientifically certain what DNA tastes like

                    after making love

If this isn’t Art I’ll slash my vocal cords

me tenderest testicle / I’ll stop blathering

                        if this isn’t Art

1 tree branch bends under the weight of 1 sparrow

or rather 1 sparrow ends up shattering 1 branch that’s already broken

                We’re still alive

somehow or other we must name the islands of crystals

that with the luxury of violence trample the softest regions of your eyes

reality seems like 1 miniature made to scale from mica

but also your eyelids your perception & its straitjacket

                                                                      Material & Energy /

& the courage to stick your tongue inside their tongue

This is 1 very peculiar day

vibrant quotidian anonymous

absolutely earthly as we often say on days of celebration

                                or during the every more frequent house raids

the fear lights up your stomach & it burns

                                                THERE IS NO AHISTORICAL ANGUISH

                                                TO LIVE HERE IS TO HOLD YOUR BREATH

                                                                                                & UNDRESS

––Advice from 1 disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger fanatic––

Poetry: we’re still alive

                & you light my cheap cigar with your matches

                    & you look at me like 1 insignificant mop-top

shivering with cold in the comb of the night

                                                                We’re still alive

1 green-eyed and & yell-winged butterfly

                has pinned itself to my jacket’s blue lapel

––my denim body

                    feels seductive human radar pollen magnet

acquires at times the conviction of 1 miniature galaxy

                    singing sheer absurdities between ohs of amazement––

Damn what a moon!

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