Little big banalities
‘Ceramic shaped with a sad whispering in the distance
Figures always destined to live stolen from their own nature
The mortar will inhibit their own movements
Some kind of children playing there in the skyline
Falling, jumping, trying
There are eyes that always are going to see the same
Their shouts leave suffocated
In their ears echoing an opaque gray.’
You must run away, and take the flower in your hands with gentle touch.
Be quiet. Take a hammer, square, pencil or brush. And with strength, stroke it over the wound. The field is roaring. Disembowel it.
“Who?” Somebody replies. “Me?”
“You?” Is heard somewhere. “Who is the one supposing here?”
You go from here to there … , many places, issues and contacts. It doesn’t matter how much you search. You will never know of that thing … . Although it floods life, you are covering it with hatred and envy.
Where are the points of inflexion ?
In what kind of chronology ?
We speak and discover, all of it numbered.
Garnishing when the matter requires such kind of effort.
Filling with a nothingness, present by error or chance.
We are making a state that fulfills needs (hackneyed romantics say otherwise).
A sort of happiness falling over us.
Candid ambient and ceiling.
Nourishment in supposed or fictitious misfortunes grown.
And we agree on not wanting that our children will be a violent person.
We prefer some type of payments blinded.
With brass, tin, lithium and similar things..
The gold not letting be seen anywhere at all.
Sometimes no more than simple innocent scrolls of meritorious signature stroke.
Some people could say these words are mere, easy cliches.
Ideas already too much exposed, lived and heard.
Others people could say they agree about them.
Maybe some ones among those with a proper consciousness (as that which is sometimes granted in modern art galleries).
We buy. We sell.
Sometimes in our luck having what to others has been taken.
But then, what is the correct shape?
That one which I chose–I suppose.
We have been given a choice from a fan of possibilities.
Thought and designed for me and for you.
Only names here and there in our times seemingly free.
Ephemeral changes.
“Hey … you.” Is heard in a bazaar somewhere.
“Who are you alluding to?” Somebody replies. “Me?”
“Yes you, come to my parlour here, leave the fashion there. This thing; this will look good for your image. And this other for that machine which has brought you here.”
Then, hundreds of important opinions.
I am amazed!
How can you be able to know what are you thinking?
The facts?
The act?
The thing that you want?
Who has been lost throughout the history, our savage or our savant?
A theatre play
whose main actors are statues made of marble and clay.
On a stage where practically only remain roses and glasses,
gears and wires, fêtes and smiles.
Where are the points of inflexion?
In what kind of chronology?
by A k v
