The cyclist rests his feet on the wings
the wheels just a thread
balanced on the asphalt.
Sitted head down on the frame
he holds the lost end of the road
rolling up his effort on the pedals.
The life of the man without time
slided by his side as a line
as the instant on the bike tangles up.
Silence you’re going to gather from his hands
he puts all on his legs and than stays
in the long wind tunnel
listening
______/ frrr frrr frrr frrr frrr /
to himself.
Originally posted in Italian on June 18, 2008 at 1:24
Mu
Two messy eyebrows
one little childhood scar.
The skyline on the sand
and four drops of green tea.
So one writes blank.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The cyclist I
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1 comment:
Perfectly inserted at the bottom of the poem, «Bicycle wheel» by Marcel Duchamp (third version of 1951, after the loss of the original of 1913, now at the New York MOMA).
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