dissabte, de febrer 09, 2008

Feathers



It is just feathers, it is just bloody feathers, I keep repeating to myself at the same time that I know it is not. It is fuckin’ absolutely not only feathers. It is feathers and bone and it is growing on my back, in my back.

The reflection from the mirror was something. It scared me shitless, literally, I tell you. One thing is to feel some strange lumps under your skin and another quite different thing is to see a pair of growing wings staring back at you from your bathroom mirror, a mere hand spam away from the little cupboard where I store the soon to be expired condoms. And it was not water condensing there from the hot shower I had taken before, I double checked on that. It is black feathers, lustrous as full midnight seen from the inside of a coal mine.

Is there a message here? Is somebody, (God maybe?), trying to tell me something? Humans, there you go, your new guardian angel, be weary, oh demons, of his five inches flaming sword. Should I feel proud of my mutation? Should I open the window and see how I manage to avoid cracking my head against the city skyline?

What I am supposed to do now? Shave? Stick everything under a t-shirt and go for a walk along the beachfront? Go buy some hi-energy seed mix, containing dry insects? Cancel my near future dates? (Wouldn’t have much trouble here). Call the cops? Go live on friggin' David Letterman’s Late Nite Show? Come on in and see the freak, the astonishing sight: the Birdman. Children for half a Penny. Do not be frightened, he is quite harmless!

Perhaps is just a phase I am going through, like when I changed my voice or when my sister grew boobs. Something you end up getting used to. Living with. Even enjoying it if you ask me.

But why me, of all guys? Is it the dope? Is it? If it was, half the guys from the school would have sold their bikes and would be soaring the heavens. Is it because I am the kind of guy you’ve forgotten even before you've laid your eyes upon? Is it to give me an edge? Something for girls to gape at? Or maybe I am just an excuse for a story he does not even know how to finish.

6 comentaris:

Marta ha dit...

Aprofita aquesta mutació per desplegar les ales i començar a volar.

Ja saps que no sé gaire anglès, però tot i així, crec que més o menys he entès el text, i m'ha agradat molt.

Petons!!!

digue'm ariadna ha dit...

... Les notes dels STP i el temps de maduració han deixat petites fissures en les paraules, com les plomes deixen petits espais en l'ala...

Antitot ha dit...

Cullons Poeta, cada dia et llueixes més...
Espero que aquestes ales, Poeta, no siguin com les quines resen la canço del manson "..scabbed wings", sinó que siguin lleugeres i boniques pq, mentres planeges per admirar el món, el món et pugui admirar a tu...

PD: Quin repte em vas llençar amb aquest mail?No el recordo...

Poeta per un dia ha dit...

El repte, Antz, era de trobar alguna cosa en el personatge a partir de la qual puguis dir: "ah.. mira... això el Poeta ho diu per...." relacionant-ho amb el món real, a diferència de l'imaginat o l'imaginari. Però, pel que veig, si un s'hi posa, acaba trobant.. no?

Ariadna,... les paraules estan esquerdades ja que surten a trossets de la faringe i després cal apedaçar-la amb esparadrap.

Marta... el problema de volar és l'aire que et fa plorar els ulls, de vegades....

Petonets als tres!!

digue'm ariadna ha dit...

... Jo que parlava de la poètica dels sentiments, i resulta que són restes gore viscerals...
=;p

rai ha dit...

Molt bo. Em trec el barret, mestre.