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Articles tagged "Truth"

The Man Who Killed the Writer

First things first: I didn't write the book everyone thinks I wrote, the one that has been showering me with fame and riches since its publication, just over one year go. Although many people might find that strange—while others might say, I knew it, he never fooled me—the work was entirely finished when I found it, scattered in scrawls all over the walls of an apartment just like my own: all I did was edit it. They Kill Writers, Don't They? was written by a fellow...

From behind a Closed Window

Is there, out there, a sky Sunny or windy or humid with autumn A sky at dawn, or a sunset sky? Are there, out there, human faces Strange or familiar Happy or hurting Friendly faces, or faces like beasts'? Is there, out there, a nothingness With no future, and no past? Was it I who drew the curtains across the window? Is there, out there, dark earth That buries all flesh that once was beauty That buries all glances, all shut lips? Is there only this place?...

At 30

The first ten years of my life, as the moon exposed its silent craters to my small city far below, the streets filled with shouts, gongs and drums drove out devils, my lame uncle cursed in the yard, and careless, I got kissed by the white rooster's beak. A little girl pulled her pants down before me, and once I ran into the ghost of a suicide on the stairs, but my father raised me high overhead and told me not to fear. Hailstones bounced their lives out on the walk to the...

Quasi Sonnet

There is nothing that leads to nothing. Even to sit in a room, quiet and nude as Blaise Pascal, will have some effect on Tanzania maybe, or on New Guinea, just as the beating wings of a lepidopter-- according to the proverb about butterflies in Peru-- could incite a tidal wave in Shanghai, or knock down an Iraqi helicopter. And so we become ourselves, hypocrite lecteur, at the very least accomplices, you and I.

well hell then what

well hell then what what hell what then wax with one hand leaning with the cheek rubbing with a leg she's a dyed in the wool pioneer perfect pallor, not a drop of tan not a gram of conscience in a shirt, sleeves rolled up a tie white as her with a book without letters, like a living as if dead asking: "kiss me, moscow girl, kiss lenin, he lives between my legs this time didn't go anywhere life swung on the swing more has happened here trust me lenin lives,...

What’s New?

I saw a ghost pass in the mirror Someone whispered something in my ear I said a word, and left. Graves scattered with the mandrake seeds. A bleating sound entered the assembly. Gardens remained hanging. Straw was scattered with the words. No fruit is left there. Someone climbed on the shoulders of another Someone descended to the netherworld. Other things are happening in secret I don't know what they are- This is everything.

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