The Poet's subconscious
Suggestions come to life this way and most of all my blood's ink
- pre-expressionistic treasure, the soul's deep box of solitude.
My fever still masking the hypocrisy of the times.
Yet I always seize some elements,
which I will seed in the dream
of a white aphonic image,
where you and I are looking under the car’s bellyfor the inert body of the
motorcyclist we run over.
Or, the illogical guarantor, the chained word of normality.
So in that coarse chunk of events, showing plagues and wounds,
the bruised identity set near the purulent lesion on the ribs,
I see the impossible assuming the shape and features of denial.
In the sleep, the identifying data of a singular destiny collapse
and, of conscience, on my thoughts I exercise but a transversal glance
from which arise a phrase, a rumble, a desire.
Ah, impulse, gray malaise,
lugubrious runt of analogical ideas. The easiness
with which, in my speech,
an image translates itself in a box,
a fish-eye lens that pulses, a camera.
Erminia Passannanti, Oxford , 12. 1. 2002
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