cine-mato-graphic-ally we crumble, involucreless, and transformed into spectres

for thousands of years we stay searching the hologram’s shadow of
the non controllable mental activity which shows itself, while we are
awake or while we are sleeping
and
no one can tell you
that you are alive, since you cannot even see your face without the help of a mirror
–
you disappear while someone falls from a sky
scraper, smashed into the incontrollable logic of gravity
.
the truth is that there is a difference between seeing your own vessel
and knowing it
– no one knows their own representational space
;
one does not hold control of the unbalanced car without breaks of substance,
one does not hold control of the flesh
and even if they can mend your muscles it is complete-ly impossible for you
to mend your own conscience in front of the mirror,
in one of the bathrooms of an enormous shopping centre
,
for as much as we find out about the constitution
of the complex human machines, at no time will we find the exact place,
the macroscopic or microscopic cartography
of the exact place, where the spirit is located
.
we know nothing about ourselves, we only know which
slice of the cake is ours when we celebrate a birthday,
or when we have a brain haemorrhage
– it is completely impossible to draw a portrait that is not too
invisible, when we have to reconstruct the clinical history of
the outline of the human landscape in the civilization
al diachrony
.
there are too many involucres compressed in the russian salad of
the portion differentiated from substance, which occupies the space
– do you by chance know the exact composition of your adn,
do you know the exact composition of your eyes that, when sad,
let pass through their rounded shape ghost trains, where, on each carriage, travel the characters
of all utopias, night-mares, real-ities
–
we know nothing about ourselves, we only know that we are drowning
in the water that melts the ice of the north and south poles of emotions
–
we are drowning into the bottom of an excessively well unknown ocean
as excessively enigmatic,
excessively obscure has always been our route
and is not our life not more than the leaf of a tree so enormously
large that we cannot even see it,
chewed daily by the lips of a breeze
;
we are pushed on in a mobile sequence
in a space deprived from light by the interposition of an opaque matter
between this and the bright object
.
we already are machines in the machines we create,
we already are machines in the machines with which we move,
and let off against ourselves, in instants that cease
– fragments of abstention of production of any sound –
in the most armed of all moments
that any arm dealer has ever imagined,
in an warlike arsenal older
than the existence of history,
stocked with swords, armours, bayonets, rifles, tanks, bombers,
nuclear submarines of the size of several soccer fields,
or fighter-planes
…
–
invisible,
compressed in a multitude of vessels,
identitary archaeologies of numbered percept ional processes,
in an uncontrollable sequence that not even clio
or sofia can answer
,
sheltering in oblique compartments, in between the roofs and
the last floors of houses
our darwinist ghosts and now the monsters of our
magination in the form of genetics or robotics,
as if the path we follow was nothing but
an endless, incredible trip of metamorphosis, with no destination, in a spaceship
that has already been a vessel or a team of horses
…
buried in the ruins of cities and ancestral civilizations that have lost their bodies,
buried as beings that suffer from sigmatism,
due to cerebral palsies,
suffering from a ferruginous colour that appears in the corrosion
of any distinct part of substance
–
we live the blind cosmogony
and humanity fits in a museum room
!
and our white or red blood corpuscles, captive in the blood
of the anatomy with which we dress, during
the entire life of only one day
they do not even exist,
when in love with emotion,
our senses break into war, we climb walls,
as a species of insane insects,
until the unavoidable crash of bodies in certain spatial and temporal places
– and history is nothing more than a mythical succession
of collisions between natural and human substance
.
cine-mato-graphic-ally we crumble,
as out of focus characters on olive tree fields in the twilight,
or as imperceptible characters in gardens filled with roses
and other similar rose-shaped flowers
–
involved in the millenary forgetting and remembering, obsessed by
the fusion of the capital with the nervous system,
enraptured in the body’s involucre
– lexicon of carnal words –
proclaiming a brutal inscription, to which no one can return, a
new production system for the human species
.
compressed in a multitude of indistinct substances and concepts
at the service of the artificial society,
slowly we come close to an intimate communication with
the mechanical forms that come out of the fingers
of our hands, coming closer and loving the forms into which
all our psychic and intellectual occupations have become
which we simply cannot control
– while sleeping, or in the daily lucidity

of an endless lexicography of
the body
cine-mato-graphic-ally.