LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 167
I grab a cockroach, ripping off its legs. I grab and twist the head of a rat. I see a heart attack, a movement that doesn't perpetuate itself. I grab a bunch of lettuce, chew, chew. The water of my saliva along with the grass, a rotting mammal. My nose runs, a warning. Always, always, there's the smell of blood. In the petulant, irascible, flickering air where dissatisfaction persists. I think and think, and in the turns of the hands, in the bell that tolls in the creation of ideas, in the weak and insensitive song that didn't hear me, stagnant, at the tip of my pen, I use my blood. Yes, so many flowery streams, shadowy ambrosia of the little ones. Everything I draw is red, faceless. And everything I write is repetitive; blood has the same smell, the same color, and the same feeling.
