A person is a people that struggles to be Selfish

The illness of

multiplication without a proper distance


the Self at war

like a cloud packed too tightly

under the sun

would rain;

though the Body,

in itself starry-eyed

Re-signs other-wise

under the catastrophic light

of endless repeating,

Where too much time pushed into the corners

of a single thing


In turns out

that Out turns in


a twist in the dynamics of containment

The perfect emptiness of being there

whilst nothing;

A simple re-versal in the original illusion

a revelation

in the language of movement

of movement

in language, too

Only to worry in retrospect, of course

Now to then

as Then to now


We are not mistaken

but we were;

And thus, something like the Self

may continue to be everyone

Whilst no one could possibly return the favour

and somehow be themselves.


Ossídio reading his Poetry

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