“I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him. I do not know which of us has written this page.”
DARLING, ALL NIGHT
I HAVE BEEN FLICKERING OFF, ON, OFF, ON.
THE SHEETS GROW HEAVY AS A LECHER’S KISS.
THREE DAYS. THREE NIGHTS.
LEMON WATER, CHICKEN,
WATER, WATER MAKE ME RETCH
I AM TOO PURE FOR YOU OR ANYONE.
YOUR BODY HURTS ME AS THE WORLD HURTS GOD.
