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Reflecting our twisted bodies
doubling us to the very end of finite
until the very end of gesture
appearances are not what they seem
and the border - increasingly dense
separating the euphoric illusion
from the liberator though sad truth
is a trap in the confines of the finite
the spring as the fruit
of our games remains
dangerously hidden
which of us shall dare break the mirror
- and when?
What is this about?
you can easily find your way trough it my LitNet friend....
Oh, Jeos. Doing philosophy in poetry again. There's a demographic that your writing would most certainly speak to, but this reader finds himself outside of it.
You and cafolini don't seem to understand that while they're the same thing, they're completely different things.
J
Oooh Jack ! Sorry if I daaare not agree with you.Notwithstanding...I improved the translation from portuguese (but this is more to you Rumfield).Now coming to you Jack...poetry isn't only making confessions, as often happens with you (but some are well written there I agree).What are your sources...? Read Pessoa man - amongst others...I will send to you some examples.
Hey! They're not confessions! They're attempts to deal with this soul-crippling external world skepticism.
Message away, Jeos. Though this reader suspects he's already read fruitier continental philosophy than you might be giving him credit for.
J
EDIT: What do you mean, 'sources'?
Personally, obviously, I look for something I can relate to in what I read, that moment where I think that somebody caught a subliminal thought or re-painted a picture lost in my head, or took me to a place I have never been. Or in the case of Munkinhead with 'Butter on the harp' written in a style that puts fingers in your brain and massages it to orgasm.
If you are sending me a philisophical message, it didnt arrive.
Hey Jerry pls change that...I mean your signature.
This is highly amusing: each time you say something on my texts I just have to use your signature as an answer...!