Moving, raw and violent

Moving, raw and violent --

amusing, unconventional and poetic.

The most personal language is unexpected temporal jolts

of style, some predefined, some placed

with a dazzling coldness but always crashing

against the "forces of the evil", confining

talks to silence and killing to a game of guns

firing the blanks of artifice.

 

But it is this facility or extreme tension to smile,

where a cake slice, a malnutritioned photographer,

a child with its northern-facing face desperate with joy,

the rin-tin-tinning of a bell at the monastery,

face sinking in the snow as it out-races a rocket into the nocturnal sky,

its personage a prisoner of its own solitude,

piece of real estate in river floats to the sea

while the wheels of its chair begin to sink in the bathed sand.

 

Solar images of animals from beyond the dead fill up the screen

with joy and lightness in a suicide relegated to the narrow borders of burlap

where the ghosts of the past say to be alive

is also to be stealing the mutilated words of the dead.

 

I'm just speaking out loud and imagining that you're listening.