Organoleptic Cacophony
The breath
Comes
&
Goes
Howling current
The sound of scratching my hair
Endless onomatopoeias
Permeating the flesh
And flooding the air.
Even the beating in my chest
Is deafening
Even the rushing
Red in my veins
Is a fanfare.
Silence does not exist:
Faced with (im)possibility
Things that
My body
Speaks to me,
Usually whispers,
Are now made screams.
ginsenoside
had I tasted
the bitter and vile root
that births your reason
would it
have made me
more of
a saint?
had I forsaken
my selfishness
would it
have given place
to holier sins?
had I exchanged
in an anti-faustian pact
my fruit
for your paradise
my science
for your atonement
my life
for your death
would it
have made me
as happy as I already am?
after all
had I been
what I am not
what I cannot be
would it
have still been me?
cemetery of crooked proboscises
I wake up and find myself astonished
by the remains of a massacre:
fallen lifeless on my parquet floor
the corpses of dozens
of foolish mosquitoes
their proboscises already crooked
their wings already withered
their blood, stolen from mine, already dry
and lacking salt.
Day after day
this cemetery of naïve insects
and unsuccessful hemophages
forming at the feet of my fan
(the vile things must call it “gale”):
such is life.
Belo Horizonte, September 27, 2024.
Ian Anderson Gomes Dias is a 22 year old writer and student from Brazil. He has published two books and has collaborated with national literary magazines.
