To a dead mouth of a fish
the sea hold to pull 
the sky full

I’m becoming smaller and compressing in the darkness of somewhere I haven’t born yet. As I dwindle, I am internally enlarging; my body have become loose for my soul and lost its grip and the ties… The ties which fasten your kidneys with your flesh; distinct, thin, thick and roadless ties which reunite your heart with your hands and feet through the veiny paths…

Legs are locking from the memorized joints, soldered to crumbs of timeless rocks, kicking the material weight… Someplace far, a bird well-known for its habit of mockery is singing and the rhythm that is added one after another is like an avalanche.

Is everything going to stop?

The crumbs in the mouth says no.

Desires snuggling to my legs with the melancholic pleasure of not being able to turn into actions and I am pushing my dark blanket. As I touch to the earth and the earth wanders on the buds of my tongue, I am experiencing loss of consciousness in the units of time which only can be perceived by birds and ants… I am filling these losses with the caves slept in, the rattling of buried bones, the uncanny existance of the dying and feeding roots and the always unique weight of soles.

Reticulated like the bee makes honey, body fills up. I am pulled from the chest, a hidden hook, then, the light left where I touched.

To a dead mouth of a bird
the sky hold to pull
the earth full

One thought on “Vulcanalia

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