TOURING THE OUTER LIMITS
Walking without intention, without a destination, I become a feature of the night, a fixed whisper in limbo, impatient for the days to meet with haste my ruin.
A bleeding of dueling neon fertilizes a passion for what is human I do not wish to cultivate: I belong to the marble skyline, to its falsified boundary that excludes me from the entropic machinations of the universe.
Evenings are an emptiness I fall into with ease and erudition, with the greatest of intimacy.
We excavate our bodies, to mine for material we wish to own, the precious elements for which we weep and obsess.
With a peculiar sadness I discover only faint traces of the constellations, the myths of our suffering that once resembled the essence of our being.
The night’s grip becomes glacial, descending the ecstasy of a frozen void; complete and bitter loss.
These voyages are about distance: seeking runway and everything I will eventually fail to obtain.
I maneuver between less crowded routes, forming paths along the blueprints of abandoned industry, and the deterioration of my figure.
I am comforted by the monotony of the twilight, where every hole in the ground that struggles to possess its structural elegance is just a littered gutter, where strays come out from under scaffolds to bless the darkness I am destined to orbit, where I wait the night to flood again a last effort of love, where it makes sense just to end—to let the illusion of living be my escort.
THE SPLENDID FRENZY OF DECLINE
Our suffering was…
…an unattended funeral, an unexpected infliction: disquietude kept warm by incompletion, the envy of a particular cowardice.
…a cave inside us, the well around love’s denouement, the resolution of our surrender.
…a canvas on which we traced with permanent lead discordant characters: their shapes, their sequence, mimicked a decoration of sleep that exhausted us into dreams.
…the defilement of our flesh, the complex speech of silence we listened for within the bare walls surrounding our resignation.
…a repeated dialogue with an endeavor that refused to be built: the darkness was there before we belonged to it.
…an atlas, a diagram etched into our skin.
…a formulaic precision in the likeness of a shivering light, the last-breath intensity of an expiring flame.
…a space absent of depth, an emptiness caused by death’s negative achievement.
…perpetual reinvention, entities in a poem, celestial.
…a lost coastline along the ceiling, where we fumble in a remote abyss for secret landscapes, parts of each other not meant to be known.
…without expression, a stoic forfeit to the faculty of concepts not present to the senses our existence designed to fail.
…a light that favored, on occasions of reluctant tumult, an awareness of our confinement.
…an object of secrecy, vague shadows of ambition.
…a rapture of great consequence, a desire unattained, not achieved, thus our relief.
…a musical composition written in a siren: reposed, slumbering fantasias to yet imagine.
…a vestige overwhelmed by ivory, a scent of lilac without a source, a hollow, finite vocabulary.
…a cacotechny, a mise en abyme: phrases from history we did not learn ourselves but by our grimaces explained the meaning.