A person is a people that struggles to be Selfish

The illness of

multiplication without a proper distance

Describes

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

Trans-form

In turns out

that Out turns in

warping,

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

Trans-form

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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