Jean Narciso Bispo Moura

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 8, 2014

Monologue of the Indolent


A laziness licks the soles of my shoes

Followed by the feet that can not resist the force of its saliva.

And if prostrated on the ground of rest

The word in movement finds the garden

The poet walks without a single step.

In the lane, the divine forest

Built with earth and human sand.

The pilgrimage leaves as a convoy of words from the sofa

The eyes join in

The body follows

The multitude of men of all colors

They are part of only one leaf.

The poet wants to speak in drunken language

That the wind of poetry never ceases throwing in its face

The word as a chameleon does not have fixed color.

It hides throughout the world

But at times is not there when we imagine it.

The word is without border.

A present and simultaneously absent body

In great movement.

Jean Narciso Bispo Moura

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