EXPOSICIONS
In the beginning there was the patience of the Man. No word, no light, just the patience of the Infinite Man caressing the disquiet, uneasiness and the shadows as if in a dance of the old fire…Like motorways, all the tentacles of his pain are spreading out from his body and he, at the border of the pond, learns how to live in an eternal discontinuity, caressing the peculiarities of that other face in the mirror and chasing after the cat's tail like the bone to the heart of the fish…Like a mania, like the stubborn mania of the poet whose skin is burnt by wisdom and centuries, such was his search, the search of this First Man, for coming out of his mother and his father, too…
To escape, from the bottoms of the metasubstance to run away, with oxen and cowbells and leave you all with just one question for all the phrases and fleas still waiting to be counted. Not feeling like giving time anymore or playing with dices, my only wish now is to come out and finally believe in the reincarnation of the body, the only body, this body of mine, I measure in spans with rage. And as in that Greek myth – just the other way around and medias in res – working his way from the bottom of the pond towards the surface, going after the red and the black boiling in my eyes, after the wrinkle of my soul that drives me to search and search and never stop digging through like a blind and slow mole, scratching constantly between the vein, the land and the mud…
I was born
a moment after everything else,
feeling capable of living now
only at the point of escape.
Why nobody ever told me of
all the crystal of the soul?
Why wasting more time? I want to escape, leave everything and run after the animals, my head, my hands and my feet bleeding from so much desire of not seeing them anymore, as if the rain falling on me from within is getting angry, more and more again, and I do not know where to hide my disquiet and my daggers…
And the red, always that red at the bottom of the eyes of the swimming pool, at the perfect point of nuisance and schizophrenia.
Two thousand men complaining
about my deafness
I carry within…
And how to hide my veins
I do not know!
I am the Man who is talking to you through the Woman Impure: I am the sin and I am the fault. I believe in the eternal self-hatred as the only way of living; it is a snake stretching more and more inside me, tired as a harlot, as a prostitute of the deck of cards of the game I am playing with myself in the shadow, hidden from everybody. I feel exasperate when I am not in motion, but I know my shoe size almost every day of the year…
I wanted to stop dancing, I wanted either to leave or forget the circle: put an end to everything, die and not say a word more as my naked body and my cannibalism are embarrassing me, as well as my extreme duality which splits me in two like all the oceans…
Now I do not want to write anymore: all seems so strange and I can’t find myself on the maps I read when I hit the vertiginous roads of the bottom of my stagnant waters…Who will save me from the knife blade that I am sharpening? Who will save for me a handful of apples so that I can sin with pleasure?
I live projected in doubt,
the only way I can understand the shapes:
I am an eternal amphibious of the lake,
the landowner of the shadows,
the hidden knife of the soul,
the waiting willow,
Narcissus looking at himself.
M.Cabrera.