Las Herramientas del DescubramientoOliver Luker
Who caught you in that camera flame, thumb-twist strap on a boyish arm? Who created, bullied day? Who numbed me raw? This piece is an awl, this tool a file - I drive a hole in the darkened page, a hook to hang you from, a point, and twist new words about your frame. A scribing point to leave a line, to etch blood-springs in your ankle's grain; a diagonal rib, that arc-chamber. A brutal corner, a coppered bone. I labour here not for love, nor affection; there is nothing of ambition in it, nor care for the heart's common wage - but work instead to raise a song, a silvered gut, a threaded light in the streaming air. A bone-glue gleaming, fixing, inside the pan. One note elect like a fish on fire, one word like a needle to capture form.
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