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#lit

How do I love you?
Oh, this way and that way.
Oh, happily. Perhaps

I may elaborate by
demonstration? Like
this, and
like this and

           no more words now

Mary Oliver, “How Do I Love You?”, in Felicity

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lebucText

*
…and so we sat,
in the throes of 2020’s
viral antagonist’s frisson,

little realizing
it was just an overlay -
a nascent, problematic spray
of transmission;

while fading into gray
a problem internalized,
deployed, near normalized
in this post-civil righteous hovel;

blanketing the void, as
a gaping, none too novel schism;
an always annoying vestige
of a racism

rimming an unmerited liberty
of some too incensed to reckon
the liminal boundary, too dense to beckon
a seminal foundry

that’d make great any nation

should all cogs of the wheel
be allowed just participation.

there’s no antidote
for a inversed blessing
not seen as a curse
by those who’ve rehearsed by rote
chapter & verse,

that window dressing
called life, liberty,
honest toil in happiness’ pursuit

that’s just a doilied lead overlay on a dinner tray
still stocked with forbidden fruit.
*
5/20 - lebuc - overlay

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The day of deconfinement is approaching. Soon we will be able to publicly show off our bodies transformed by inactivity, compulsive weightlifting, abuse of alcohol and screen time, vitamin D deficiency, approximative hygiene, dietary imbalance, and spousal violence. This will be a new human race that flows out into the street, a species of hunchbacked creatures with bare chests, hypertrophied arms, swollen abdomens, flat buttocks, bister complexions, disheveled manes, red eyes and deformed noses, dressed in rags from another century, droning and stuttering in an unfamiliar language. We may rejoice, however, that kissing remains contraindicated.

As luck would also have it, the faces of these toads will be concealed, at least in part, behind protective masks. Those who have been lucky enough to procure them, in any case. I’ve been thinking of making some for my family and me by fashioning them out of Lachesis’s webs, which have become graceful canopies lining our ceilings. According to my calculations, given the square footage of our home, I should be able to make five hundred thousand masks. But will it be enough?

I still haven’t contracted the virus, though I can’t say I’ve been so successful at resisting its insidious influence. If nothing else, it has jammed the well-oiled—or so I thought—machinery of the book I was writing when it first appeared. Everything stopped. Covid-19 parasited my writing completely. Not so long ago I boasted of having stood up to it at full height, fighting on the battlefield of the page to turn its virulence back on itself. Good luck, Chuck! Grow a pair, Baudelaire! Today this smug naiveté seems pathetic to me. The breathing apparatus I use when I write, and indeed all of my operating systems—circulatory, digestive, nervous—have been gravely damaged by its malignant effects. Cunningly, the virus has insinuated itself into my pen, liquified my language and overturned my turn of phrase; it has phagocyted the force of my words, commandeered their powers, used them as an intermediary host. I even wonder whether they haven’t become one of its primary vectors of transmission.

The coronavirus has embedded itself like one of those secondary characters that the novelist no longer knows what to do with, even though he had assigned him only a lowly or insignificant purpose. How to get rid of him? This miserable wretch has settled down right in the heart of the action. Now he’s calling the shots, dictating the destiny of all the protagonists: I won’t just have to live with him, I’ll have to treat him like the main character, the hero! Nothing will be left for anyone else. At the end of the day, the story will bear his name as its title.

Shame on me, then, for not having managed to maintain my liberty and treat this invader with the scorn he deserves. If literature is a Platonic absolute—and I would like to believe it is—why do I allow myself to be distracted from it and made to dally with these lamentable twists and turns, this ignoble epiphenomenon, all these misadventures, perhaps not so undeserved, of the human race? Wouldn’t I have been better off coughing in my little corner and continuing to write my book as if nothing were amiss? Am I such a plaything of circumstance, even when I believe my will to power is ringing out loud and bright (o, behold its sparkling armor and burgeoning plumage)?

Now where’s that vaccine?

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(…) Al buen tuntún nos revolcamos,
jadeantes, babeantes,
imperiosos como césares,
perfectos robots de la lascivia,
sobre el campo y pretexto de tanta furia,
¡la mujer!
ánfora blanda de la voluptuosidad.

Niños frenéticos, perseguimos el goce
y lloramos de rabia si nos detienen
en la carrera.

Carrera que nos llevará a la triste,
vergonzosa inercia
y desencantada paz;
al fin fuente agotada
en la amargura.

No sé el porqué –¿quién lo sabe?– de esa agrura de boca,
de ese residuo mixto
de asco y derrota.
¿Por qué, si es la naturaleza purísima
de la propia bestia,
la ley enorme de la vida,
quien nos mueve cual el viento a las semillas?

El amor del hombre | Pere Quart

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This is for everyone who couldn’t donate money, there Are playlists packed with ads, so you can donate by streaming the videos over and over. You dont even have to watch the video, play it plug in head phones and leave the room. Although alot of the videos are amazing and litterally stun me every time with the amount of support they give to everyone.

Even if this doesnt tickle your fancy please aleast spread awarness about these larger than plant issues, staying out of it, is racism, if you wont talk about it because it runs your aesthetic your sick, not talking about it sides you on the evil side.

Say their names, stand together and march forward toward peace and unity. It’s going to be a long trip, pack some water and stay hydrated.

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mjaltiText
image

My dark Vanessa by Kate elizabeth Russell

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