A man passes…

A man passes by with a loaf of bread on his shoulder.
I´m going to write, after that, about my double?

Another sits down, scratches, picks a louse out of his armpit, kills it.
What´s the point of talking about psychoanalysis?

Another has entered my chest with a club in his hand.
Shall I speak then about Socrates to the doctor?

A cripple goes by giving his arm to a child.
After that, I´m going to read Andre Breton?

Another shivers with cold, coughs, spits blood.
Will allusions to the Profound ever fit here?

Another searches the gutter for bones, rinds.
How shall I write, after that, of the infinite?

A laborer falls from a roof, dies, and no longer eats lunch.
Innovate, then, on the trope, the metaphor?

A merchant cheats his customer by a gram of weight.
Speak afterwards of the fourth dimension?

A banker falsifies his balance.
With what face shall I weep in the theater?

An outcast sleeps with his foot behind his back.
After that, won´t someone talk about Picasso?

Someone goes sobbing to a burial.
How, then, go into the Academy?

Someone is cleaning a rifle in his kitchen.
What´s it worth to talk about the Beyond?

Someone goes by counting on his fingers.
How shall I speak of the Not-I without screaming?

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