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Justin Harris. "The writer".

Justin Harris. “The writer”.

And, suddenly, everything becomes skin,
everything becomes body, matter and organs
exposed before the storm of what is tangible,
throbbing and growing
between the primal and decrepit.
How vain is the sight
losing itself into the untouched emptiness
of the absence,
of the insubstantial deprival
with no texture nor smell
detaining it for the delight or the embrace.
Even the deprivation
is tighten against the hands
and dries out the entrails and the mouth,
even the silence is an abyss
of beats that stretches out
crowding the darkness of a moment.
Even love, even the moaning bosom
of a stunted life
writhes drenched by fists and tears.
How ephemeral the word and the names
rebounding into the cavity of a night,
without the burning kiss of a surface,
of a voice answering.
And the trivial sense of spanning
everything into the ocean of a thought
conceited of reason and time.

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