Let me just speak to you straight from my inner soul the things I think every day. I've just thought this walking home with a plastic bag containing a paper-wrapped roti slung over my right shoulder. Moments earlier upon exiting the roti shop I had a sudden impulse to cross my hands behind my back, but when I did the bag knocked awkwardly against the back of my knees. I grimaced at my own lack of grace and dropped my hands to my sides, inwardly reeling- indeed I felt a sharp pang at such a display (though none noticed or cared) a pang cutting deeply, touching on the level of existence. In my headphones there was a voice singing of a separate sorrow, but vaguely enough so that I could still relate. Felt. This moment of indecision and dysfunction marred my otherwise serene and resolute walk only momentarily- recovering slightly I slung the bag over my shoulder and continued onwards, comforted by newfound poise. I passed a girl of 10, blond, sitting outside a cafe with her family. She was smiling and seemed performative; when I passed earlier she was joking with an umbrella, holding it upright while squat-walking low to the ground, then popping up laughing. I thought what it would be like to be her father, how I would feel towards her. As she looked at me she probably thought I was thinking of something else. I would marvel at the possibility of her young life with possessive comfort If I were her father. This was close to the corner of Galileo Galileistraat where, looking towards the left, I could see painted low on a pink wall bathed in sunlight, 'E pur si muove!' If I learned Italian I could read Dante. (Presently I would probably devote 3 years of my life solely to Dante. Say we all have about 80-90 years, 20-30 of which have already been frittered away, 5-10 of which will probably be lost in senile haze- so if that give us about 50 or 60 years to designate. how many of these years would you give to a certain writer? Most people give 40 years or so just to their sexual partner.) Felt is one of the greater bands of the earth. I would like to speak to you directly, constatively, saying purely the things I am always thinking, nun serviram: "
a useless young man ," "overeducated," yet can't recall
x, how a great 'giving-up' could renew certain joys. Great darkening followed by parallax shift to observe old lights anew. To give up, aim low, don't want to work,
non serviam, content to live for free and offer, what, criticisms? Lashing out from impoverished den. Strike a blow for... ?
L'aura amara. I think this poetry is truly bad (you used to think it good) I am changed now, and better than I was (who are you to say) Io!, improved and forthright, lashing out. Gegenwas no e mio.
E piu. E pur si argenti.
No'm poirian metr'en eslais. Ni buch ni geld ni ton ni femme. Ni durs senhers ni suas senhers. Ni van amors ni pur amors. E van si amore.
It's delicious it's huge it's cheap- this roti on my back.