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FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the Third
… Tanks are crawling in ye medieval streets of ye ancient town–
Unmoving, strained, alone, I sit—the sun of march, 1977, drills my skin—
I had never lived—even playing shadows were no more—
Murder did spread itself in a cool darkness of march, 1977—
Unmoving, strained, alone, I sit—the sun of march, 1977, drills my skin—
I had never lived—even playing shadows were no more—
Murder did spread itself in a cool darkness of march, 1977—
Everything in a lovely shade—
I’m writing—No more room, now—
I was there—I saw everything—
Tropical heat—No more room, now—
They talked to each other—
They met each other—
I’m writing—No more room, now—
I was there—I saw everything—
Tropical heat—No more room, now—
They talked to each other—
They met each other—
Kisses—embraced bodies, naked bodies—
Desire, absence—of love—Reality,rough reality that grips all of us
—Bologna.
Blown up railway station—Ravaged
dismembered bodies—searingsprings of blood—Self-confident and arrogant fascists smile.
Pictures plastered on a board—one beside the other
like pictographs—to compose a message—Reality …