To live is to translate.
These are my horrors; cave paintings of a damned mind...
Impossible exactitude drives me on,
Endlessly rewriting the world,
To resemble some perfect original.
Normality conspires to reclaim
The oddness in these words,
To turn a carnival into a shopping centre.
Can I catch here and there a motif, a refrain
From out of the chaos?
What will foreign eyes appropriate,
What will they assimilate of this?
Find a style of being,
Such is my imperative since birth,
And the knack is not easily won.
What is my natural habitat?
I have not found it yet,
Not on these streets or in these days
Or in this country or any other.
A life spent at the borders,
Busy with espionage and contraband,
Is my calling; the world hangs
On a semi-colon.
Have I misread the situation again?
Misunderstanding is a way of life,
A way of getting by.
Too many compromises
Hedge me in my neverland,
But I press on towards the next crossroads.
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