The audience is waiting where's only a silhouette of art and despair, a work of flesh and
paper standing as poetry Crowds attending to this tragedy Clowning I unravel something
of myself and ... The audience waits, prompting the search, regret and resurrection of this
very particular soul from the human community.
The famine in us, purchase renewed flesh for our old predicament, same tragedy, where there is nothing to wait, expecting nothing from waiting. Our stage will not deceive us, ourselves,
saints (although they lost their eyes and don't expect anything) in here, we lie, and our lies
devour everything, become everything, true. We had eaten the reality and no one
noticed; music was our body; lyrics were our body's prays, without wisdom, words
thenceforth appeared materializing our body, that old predicament:
...The audience is waiting, unknowingly, feeling what they feel -undertaken by some
consciousness- following a kind of perfection! we must fail, soon, and then will be left
some voices containing a slight rhythm of ourselves merging in a river of peaceful melodies (not this desert where an audience waits).
and what will be left from that waiting?
and what will be left when you hope that no one will be waiting?
We can't be, we hope to act like saints (but, they usually come with massacres):
…From here we can get close to the stage, where heads drift from the seats and where we
are ripped from our place and ourselves!
…In the stage there's a vast community renewed every second! We stand being seen (with
a memory of something that may not die: try to made lullabies for sleepless kids, try to eat
something that could sing!)
Here is a promise not understood; we are saints (like those who humiliate themselves)
and, we may live in company of our many deaths but in here we will stand as a child,
lonely, in the stage empty, like an empty plate.
The audience is waiting, we can't be horrified: Show a face for this life that will free
herself, show this body that will wait for the loss of his porter, show the voices hidden in
the relief of our hypothetical audience!
The saints show a rotten flesh of marble, and the perverse chance touches our spirit, lost,
in every creation from a stage where a process of lies becomes us.
My achievement like a beast eats from inside and the words emerge insanely stealing
almost everything of my own; and made me sing, madly, without a stage, an audience or
an act. Vast ineffable company.