Tuesday, May 5, 2009


Marcel Broodthaers' La Pluie (Projet pour un texte), Belgium, 1969
On a day
but not today
a lizard
wrapped its arms around the earth
each kiss from its lips
the cement we all sleep on craked a little
desert roses spouted 
from the spots where
it salivated
I saw this happen and approached it 
with a bit of wetness
in my eyes
But the lizard
crawled into the sea
I could not go there
My home was far away
I had to get home
to walk on my carpet 
with shoes
to move between walls
and create
the meaning I manufacture there
in my home
washes over me
over my whole and enticing body
while I sleep
in my bed
My appendages are made 
from industrial plastics
They smell like dead 
I bleed in technological terms
that you wouldn't understand
My body has been sterilized
and its fluids replaced 
with matter raped of motion
The things I build are aesthetic wonders
I stand
facing them as they face me
I cannot go away from them
They are my shelter 
from the stench of rain
and the diseased dirt
the viciousness of flowers
These things I make are more
massive than the ground of all
So as you can see
it was not possible for me
to go where the lizard went
Though I saw my reflection 
in its blue tears
as it slipped
into the ocean
and though I looked up 
from the ground and saw the sky
invite me in
I am only human

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