Monday, 27 September 2010

Note to Self

To live
is to exercise the swelling of your lungs,
of which
little balloons shape its lining
like an interior designer dancing in the palace of the Tsar.
I am the Tsar. I am the heir of nothing in particular.

Some men have mediocrity thrust upon them;
men who looked at the sky
and were saddened by the stars
of night and light and the half-light.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams.

Tudo no mundo começou com um sim. Uma molécula disse sim a outra molécula e nasceu a vida.
I’ve seen it happen in other people’s lives and now it’s happened in mine -
six billion, seven hundred million Giraffes inhabit this world.

To the precious pressures in my lungs:
I’ve given you all and now I am nothing.
Indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition
like moonlight on a midnight stream
giving grace and truth to life’s unquiet dream.

Poem written out of a combination of my own words and that of The Smiths, Joseph Heller, William Butler Yeats, Clarice Lispector, Allen Ginsberg, William Shakespeare and Percy Bysshe Shelley.

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