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La Condition
by Bogdan Czaykowski

He was three and a drummer, Kept going back in time, Prickling tatoos on his skin With the sticks of his drum. Had a magic cap, A fool’s motley for shame, He could see like the blind, He could talk like the mute. When silence strikes Half-normal states are born, Leaping fishes glow, Eyes pop out of smoke. Aquariums shine like balloons As the world rolls on, But we are invisible In the smoke of damp leaves. In company like a monster Lurks a human form. Ears appear and a hood, Moving lips—and that’s all. Something can make us freeze Amid peels of shrill laughter. Singed yellow skin Stretched over a grate. It hurts like aberration To see though abstractions: Hair creeping across skin Sparks mutinies in heaven. A plump body smoulders, Then bursts into flame, Blazing reds of mustachios Vanish in the mouth’s hole. O the terrible plight To drop by from a storm At a dry virtuosity Of a landscape of ads. O the harrowing plight To come from technicolour Back into the dark branchings Of viper-like roots. Who’s got the can’t-see-me cap Can tightly shut his eyes, Squeeze into a corner, keep silent, Ride a blind ass through the palms.

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