If you stick your ear to the wrist of my hand you could hear the cries of the defeated, the songs of the soldiers in the front line. The spasms of the lost ones.
I I hurt myself in my own words
They make convulsions invoking impossible places and situations
Every random glance covers me into black dust
Unwanted caresses leave me bruised
Even the wind in a book can knock me to the ground
I can see an eight-year-old boy carrying a wheelbarrow through me
It advances between my ribs like in a mine, in the dark
He walks with his head bowed and a knot in his throat
He does not dare to hum
The strong ones, the winners bury themselves with their horses, with their smoke and storms
In brand new bedding
They make promises that they break off twice a year
The strong make the raft on their backs
They let themselves fall, slip, break their bones
They can afford to be afraid or desperate
They believe in Ego
They shout “Me, me” when they fight monsters
They go out for lunch like birds of prey gushing from bottomless hats
They stop the traffic and shout their self love or hate
***
We stay embraced for years in transparent bed sheets
In a transparent city
In a world so broken that it’s almost gone
Two defeated among so many winners who never knew the shame of longing
winners sharpening their weapons in silence night by night
waiting for dawn
***
The invulnerable are alone and above all they handle any situation
They always find a crack in the wall
or a single woman from whom to make pencil sharpeners
or gunpowder
they always stumble upon an abandoned house in which to improvise a battle ring
***
I’m afraid to spill over
I’m afraid to throw my net into unknown waters
I’m afraid to look into the eyes of the child carrying the wheelbarrow through the darkness gathered in my chest
I’m also afraid to leave him in the dark
Everything passed away, hope first
But that flame continues to burn through the impalpable bed sheets
through the rubble of time
The desire remained untouched
***
The strong ones come with scandal, with whips, with handkerchiefs
They are alone and circulate everywhere through the hollow world
They fight heroically with bandages, with monitors, with labels,
with the greenhouse effects of synthetic happiness
And shout freedom “freedom, freedom”
Of course we’re vulnerable, I told him
Troy has not yet fallen inside us
__________________________________________________
image: Nara Lee
Ilinca Bernea - writing, performances, art 