Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

the night slips by addicted to the dream of ending too soon,

lifeless are the plaster faces solidified in the damp, apathetic, bitter light of this conditioned reflex of these discrete lives: the I, the stubborn eternal desert of repetition: throw forward the name, headlong, stick it into the belly at every turn of the hungriest and most merciless days and say I, I, yet again, with the short breath of a dog trying to speak but the voice doesn’t come out, and reaffirm it once again in writing with one’s own expression of consensus undersigned several so many times, my name is poured into waters hot and cold by the angelic Temperance of databases, corals in which I will collapse, I cell, animula or blastula: plasma transfused into recent veins, from behind enemy lines in Udine or Ellis Island, from Sidi Barrani, from Omaha Beach, always trying to make it last without shedding a drop: this is what excites the organs of life, certainly not the erotic arcadia

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