Visions
8 millimeter film black and white running through my brains, women’s faces, still photographs perforating entranced motionless endurance, I have found my voice and have nothing to tell. The luminous screen trashes and scars its edifice of perfection, I am reaching for meaning behind the veil of illusions, my theater darkens, my illusions shine visions… visions...
The man behind the projector utters words from behind the interrogating refracting light, tells me that he has an insight into the psychic of men, “I know what they don’t know.” My shower finished ages ago I don’t dance with strangers, now suffering visions of a dead man in an African savanna, his companions escaped only to destine themselves to the vultures the next day.
Off to a good start I think my self a vision suing ideas had by others, taxing the benediction of a humanity that does not imagine its own condition, silent pawns in their own masquerade ball, I trounce into their existence, record the movements, rewind them, play them out into the ridicules, rewind then, play them for inspiration, I pick instants that reflect their eternity, I don’t seek out their more frequent mortality, I collect their infinity, trickles of infinity. A little girl is born, recalling for mother a night of mad passionate love.
Easy and entertaining, we lunged around the weather, we are all in speaking terms, blaring out reparations of mighty sounding speech therapy. I know how to hide from them, how to lose myself in their inability, hibernating in their reign of distance and separation; undiminished.
“Don’t touch me, I like it when you touch me.” I have to go back to their insanity, I feel safe there, it is their ability to reason that scares me, known positions are aspirants of danger, quiet now, quiet.
I will steal this night to confirm the directions my soul must travel, the winds of my sleep to tell you my tales.
RC
The man behind the projector utters words from behind the interrogating refracting light, tells me that he has an insight into the psychic of men, “I know what they don’t know.” My shower finished ages ago I don’t dance with strangers, now suffering visions of a dead man in an African savanna, his companions escaped only to destine themselves to the vultures the next day.
Off to a good start I think my self a vision suing ideas had by others, taxing the benediction of a humanity that does not imagine its own condition, silent pawns in their own masquerade ball, I trounce into their existence, record the movements, rewind them, play them out into the ridicules, rewind then, play them for inspiration, I pick instants that reflect their eternity, I don’t seek out their more frequent mortality, I collect their infinity, trickles of infinity. A little girl is born, recalling for mother a night of mad passionate love.
Easy and entertaining, we lunged around the weather, we are all in speaking terms, blaring out reparations of mighty sounding speech therapy. I know how to hide from them, how to lose myself in their inability, hibernating in their reign of distance and separation; undiminished.
“Don’t touch me, I like it when you touch me.” I have to go back to their insanity, I feel safe there, it is their ability to reason that scares me, known positions are aspirants of danger, quiet now, quiet.
I will steal this night to confirm the directions my soul must travel, the winds of my sleep to tell you my tales.
RC
posted by Ricardo Correa at 10:56 PM
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