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36
VI mov.: Ha Daisu
None of this is real (is it?)
Not the stupid death sowed
in the suburban edge through negligence.
Not even the white smoke between rooftops,
the same colour as the plaster sky
that tore flesh off our bones.
History also passed nearby so try
looking for traces, but everything
is a wide farrago, incoherent sands,
and you have to climb up deposits
of facts of no importance,
dull minutes of worthless lives,
rewinding metres of virgin tape,
of empty space, blank tape or blank verse,
white noise (it didn’t record anything,
something must have gone wrong),
delays, then interpret the mistakes
of the ticket machine,
crash into the confused cabalas
of useless days, of pocket money,
receipts, notes and clippings,
signatures, labels, brands, reputation:
my name is part of the landscape
and I am this name and this body,
the character adapted to the sound,