Being an academic homeless
as being a homeless poet
a homeless thinker
is being the nothingness itself
surrounded by this lettered universe.
Here where I am
the music doesn’t sounds
the love isn’t for real
the smiles are just againts
one tinny reason, mines, and
here where I am breathing
there is nobody as there will not be
anybody when I died.
So this slowly death, inner death,
social and comunicative death
shapes my tongue
and trash my soul.
Being a homeless cultural maker
is being a kind of tear dried
by the force of the eternal silence.
And it’s ok for the rest, it always be
ok for the rest, and who cares?
I deserve the spectacular nothingness
of my own being, I deserve to be called
a homeless of the digitality times.
Homeless as my shine collapse
What for I talk? Who will I find
on my road? Where do I get the forget?
Sorry for friends, this homeless will never
be on your arms again.