Unlikely
Habit
the obsession of getting on a bus without leaving to grab what from
the window stares at me while mine don't even settle, fly over
displays' landscape, colours' range and shapes about legs and breasts,
hanged from naked torsos with hard necks, tanned; the starts and
brakes, the acid indifference of the alike; suddenly a startled
reflux, or a memory haunting, jumping from stomach to tongue, without
more than a hopeless now, when a piece of sky between an alley or a
façade turns into some exquisite glory, soiling.
and while inside this distressing trance, repeat the same unfinished lines, sort I think one day I would like to or What do you think you would say if, until reaching the mechanically unlikely habit of not knowing anything nor over nothing, to forget all names, all stories, all dates; to get used to forget everything of myself - routes, journeys, the order of things, the houses, the beds, the houses.
and while inside this distressing trance, repeat the same unfinished lines, sort I think one day I would like to or What do you think you would say if, until reaching the mechanically unlikely habit of not knowing anything nor over nothing, to forget all names, all stories, all dates; to get used to forget everything of myself - routes, journeys, the order of things, the houses, the beds, the houses.
©
2015, José Eduardo Coelho
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