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Literature Text
Is this love
is this love
is this love
is this love that I'm feeling?
Or is it a tough netted fishing line somebody else is reeling?
is this love
is this love
is this love that I'm feeling?
Or is it a tough netted fishing line somebody else is reeling?
Literature
Confesiones
Antes podía escribir lo que sentía, no me sentía limitada. Ahora, todo es distinto, el terror y la obligación a que sea leído, cerró lo último que quedaba. Atrapada, siempre observada. Ojos humanos y miradas fantasmas. Un vacío jamás cerrado, por siempre sellado. Oculto en un triste olvido, mientras refulgen ante mí letras incandescentes, personas inexistentes, llenando el vacío. Sintiéndome presionada, incapaz de avanzar un paso más. Siempre cansada, cada vez más atrapada. Viviendo el pasado, mientras pierdo un futuro. Sin posibilidades de vivir el presente. Todo se corroe, se desangra, y me río de este vacío ridículo. Ya no sostengo miradas
Literature
A Man Mourns His Muse
A Man Mourns His Muse
We were all paired on Parnassus.
But when the city sank
under the howling water I left him.
Snap. I caught him old
on his deathbed. He spoke
quietly. I leaned in, deftly:
Once I dreamt
of flickering elms
the dancing cars
O I chased them till I wept.
I could not match them
for speed. They threw
spooling loops of light
as though they knew
I would not catch them.
In another dream
I skated
the wafer of light
between evening and night
balanced, glacial
until the moon rose
and I fell. Today I felt
I'd slipped into the space
between terraced houses.
He could not have known.
I
Literature
napoleon at seven
an old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
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