The Skin

June 13th, 2011

It’s not so easy. Not so, at all. Impossible to say of the
gentleness that comes. But one must be in its tiredness, in its loss.
Must persevere. The silence of the burn scars on one’s hand.
But how does one do it?
The touch and then the words. Disjunct. How not to get beyond? The
tape, the wires around one’s neck and penis. The skin of the skin.
Safer. Then the play. No way other but play. Unless only moment. Then
no play. Is it imagined? By whom? The foreigner? Or already the
neighbour? The dread and fury of going beyond. Never to be said and
then, suddenly, already too much. The cry, the sadness, the cut of the
blade on one’s right hand. The madness of unskinned. So is the city in
its superskins. The cloths, the hair, the bricks and the so many
doors. To touch. To say. To live. Impossible. Unless.
But how does one do it?
[audio:|titles=piano piece for the late night smokers]

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