Walking Around -Pablo Neruda It so happens I am sick of being - TopicsExpress



          

Walking Around -Pablo Neruda It so happens I am sick of being a man And it happens that I walk into tailor shops and movie houses dried up,waterproof,like a swan made of felt steering my way into a water of wombs and ashes. The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores,no gardens, no more goods,no spectacles,no elevators. It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens I am sick of being a man. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law cleark with a cut lilly, Or kill a nun with a blow on the ear, It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold. I dont want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure,stretched out,shivering with sleep, going on down,into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking,eating everyday. I dont want so much misery. I dont want to go on a root and a tomb, alone under the ground,a warehouse with corpses, half frozen,dying of grief. Thats why Monday,when it sees me coming with my conviet face,blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. And it pushes me into certain corners,into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out of the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain hideous as cracks in the skin. There are sulphur-coloured birds,and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses,that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffee pot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere,and venoms,and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely,with my eyes,my shoes,my rage forgetting everything, I walk by,going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear,towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling. ~
Posted on: Mon, 07 Jul 2014 15:34:42 +0000

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