Trafika Europe 5 - Slovenian Interlude

The colour of pain

Bulging walls, stairs spiralling into themselves, leading nowhere. Blinding throbs. Nothing exists but what goes on in the body. Nodes, lines of radiation, of wandering. Intensifyings. Transient relief. What I am thickens into what hurts: the point where. Not further. Not beyond. Not over there: here. And here. I show it to the no-one there. Roads have long been leading into the impossible’s dark. All the senses turn inward, draw thick charts, register. No safety, no hinterland is left. With eyes closed I trace the wires that transmit messages of pain. You’ll be long tortured before you die; you’ll beg for a quicker death. On the top where sounds break off a cat’s mottled nape and back appears, then passes out of sight.


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