• Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell

  • Aug 27 2021
  • Duración: 25 m
  • Podcast

Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell Por arte de portada

Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell

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  • joint / to you, sleeping    your pain is hard. you always look like  crossed by a thousand thoughts a thousand blades/  a thousand sailing ship dreams ,  blood accidents, clay;  I like your dog eyes/ your pain is mine to guard, to admire,  It is mine to heal, since it comes me natural as sharing a wept it comes / and I come  to you / you come to me   I want to make you spirit and flesh  sex and water  thigh  free to be shown or not to be scratched or not;  kiss you on the forehead and where  your legs join in cave incision  sea like or not  inlet, everywhere; looking at your back one night and nothing else,  sleep inside you  being slept, dreamt, bit;  my chest and what it contains  that’s yours,   an only with you it moist with blood in the best way/ laying/  yours are my nervous feet  yours is my phallus  yours are my spasms  yours is my neck  you are almond woman  and no one fits like you exactly coincide.___________________lawyer M. boat    it doesn’t sail on salt water anymore gathering rain instead;  fixed on wooden turrets night blue keel, water-green higher and wooden  Someone brought it here to Mauro’s shipyard were was born, sons or devastated friends, after you died, and such as the memory of you it rests under just olive trees unjust heat -you would have said it better-  Put me back on the sea, -seems saying- its graceful planks seem to whisper, take those clamps away from me I am pretty, willing to cut waves be barge and refuge for naps of bathers, fisherman’s desire/ I’m not able to dream here I’m not fond of hills or birds singing but I am of sea stacks dawn beginning marine sun marine warmth___________________________dusk    I like your nape  looks like a tiny bridge  a wooden bridge leading to the lands of your mind, you mind’s caves, things on fire-  this beating I hear from stern, through stern, in stern/ does this beating belong to the one I care about most (creature)?  she speaks to me being me plus Cancer sign/ and she’s all the complex metaphors and desire and black and gate and risk  she’s a leaf to rain on,  she consoles me ________________________August 3     in this hot weather death I walk,  slowly  like skin in water.   it is enough  to be next to a fan of yours, then isn’t enough/  cause my mind detaches  from skull and its axis  like a crown from the pedestal,  like garlic from dirt/  with a glass per day  of fecund red oblivion , -no blade sight passes  through this blood-  a hundred years to live  carcass of thinking  roars  about what you were  smoke in squall /   here: eat  earth and sea things that tasted the same  for a thousand years ;  things that breathe, eat on their own,  suck, sip, absorb, chew, digest  other things with wings, fins, leaves,  roots, nails, jaws, mineral and dirt molecules/  happiness is in basil.  in this hot weather  suggesting death  more than freeze does as skin in water  still   happiness is in basil leaves  in your hands on my ears  in fishermen shouting ____________________onirical (a dream)  as I reached  the crater’s mouth   I came to my ogival wound   completely awake I came  to my sleep, to my vigil  in total seclusion of thought    mind wasn’t aching  but had consistence  of exhausted leaves in plastic or jute   -temples like mad magnets-   on the throat trampoline  still  a black molasses black wept  mustard silence  of things repelled, imprisoned -boiling wort unconscious-   I came to anxiety that had form of a clearing  with suspended bodies all over  -also suspended was the bodies sight-  and the clearing was a laying down temple meanwhile  a stern itching, and the eternal fallen down ourselves in infinite copies of ourselves,  always identical  then always different,  never better,  deceived in a modest and immature  renovation circus ending  in shedding skin  /the ghoulish act/   With phantasmagorical radiant ravishing  new coloring  we do throw ourselves in hope of a different brain  and at any dusk  we’re swindled.    II.   You poet, wearing amulets you rummage  in discernment itself,  looking for a reason for reincarnation, a rule or evidence; arousing and caring about anything; your eyebrows look like dolphins.   It’s poet fashion and only  poet fashion  seeking for a system untangling impossible, -must it be sublime system-   My green poet is never tired, he’s a child wearing in ash armor  and I love him.   The woman with him  doesn’t know mournfulness, and the stars on her eyelids  don’t burn her at all, and she leaves galloping  with arch and arrows  pointing heavens.    III. As I came to the womb of earth  I hit her with my member,  she rejected it firstly,  then embraced it, and as...
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