Body. Irregular polygons in the mind

For some the body is the altar, it is the way to get money, for others it is fun, for me it was the transitory capsule, that wraps or retains, the fear and resentment that is in us, love is something else, to hate us is simpler, to stop talking is simpler, to curse you is much more noble, to have some abandoned children much, but much easier, to have you in my arms that is not so simple, for that I must have money, work, a house, a motorcycle. By then I would not be in the bar, I would have those children with Vanessa, we would be on the beach, she was doing the papers to go abroad (she wanted to live in New York) but she always said it wrong, that was the life she wanted, from the living room I had this fucking Russian radio on, the music was Melendi, and the sky was completely clear, the Americans were growing rice and the Chinese were conquering the cosmos, Vanessa in the kitchen cutting onions, me thinking and not thinking, trying to have a blank mind, but then the body, that uncontrollable machine, which after all is also an animal in its basic part, is asking:

From the bar you can see the boats, the drizzle and the smell of land is unmistakable, pussy that I have fallen in love, Richi that I have been fucked by that shit that you call LOVE, and that I feel everything, it is strange and exciting, it is extremely challenging and threatening what I feel, is that love comes somehow you don't even realize it, it's a runaway and old horse, it's indefinable and irritating, it's the body resurrected and thirsty, the sensations amplified from the fingertips to the cerebral cortex, every shit you talk about when you're in love, no Richi.

The body is the material part, but this is not a definition, this is life, this is Vanessa riding a train to the Capital, but she may not arrive, she may die, she may be assaulted, she may just fall asleep, dreaming of the first butterflies of spring, the lilies and the lilies, the soft passing of the herbs through her hands, until next autumn you will be mine, I will not allow you to get off at any station, I have erased the train stations two dozen thousand kilometers away, only if you dare to look out the window you will be able to distinguish (despite the fog) some old (station) porter yawning and with a very old lantern, this will seem strange to you, but this is part of your journey, your (wrong) train is nothing but a mental reproduction product of amphetamines, the body can be separated from the soul with: Alcohol, drugs and sex.

Vanesa fell asleep and walking in the night, barely the breeze moved her clothes, me continuously hurting her skin, fingers shredded and coming out of the shoes, this is another of the lies, one of those that one invents to endure the fear, to evade the pain of the body, the mass of blood and pus that allows us to walk and rot slowly, cruelly and ceremoniously.