Monks

A comedy

In the corner of the kitchen an egg with its back ripped open looms near the coast of a long night a man who was sleeping stands up on his shoulder sits a cat wearing a hat the man digs a hole for his wife who is dying a pushcart loaded with food and money leaves from the opposite side bed legs and various fixtures clog the road because the man strokes it while wailing the figures of mice dissolve in the cat's throat like grapes extinguishing the moon straight ahead the trees in the forest turn around from afar before long they are covered in snow calling the man and the cross-eyed cat back to a small room but they do not walk already the man pours wine into a glass in front of the fireplace meanwhile the cat has been running around the attic so the man, who is sensitive to cold, goes after the shedding cat the man averts his gaze from the brightness of the completely naked cat birds peering in from the window at night take the shape of the dead wife's hair, so he shoots them all down eventually the man lets go of the cat's legs what those wavelike hands sink into is a crock of intensified yellow butter fascinated by this dangerous microbe culture the man puts on a doctor's whiskers and begins to sweat inadvertently the cat breaks the glass no doubt at that moment the man was saved the finger in the aerosol spray stops the rise of the amoebas they devolve into human hands so splendorous blood spurts out from between the broken pieces now he feels the need to carry a heavy object the man looks around the room he is surprised to find himself surrounded by scissors and solid furniture then the parts that cannot get hurt feet, face, genitalia, and so on, suddenly handled with great care a sturdy leather pouch from which the man never again appears

Confession

What I do not know I do not say to others furthermore I do not walk around the plaster produced by the voices of other people it's just when I try to touch with a short-handled axe which gathers in the force of the whole I get nervous if something is standing I push it on top of a rock until it falls over if something is lying down I jump on it if something is turning I wind it up with my hand until it gnaws into my blackened flesh and then yields a passageway to the exodus of the desolate column of moths and blood vessels if it were a woman I'd toss it back in her eye I'll wait patiently until she fills with consummate suppleness and a cold lake food I will throw up chopping off the heads of chickens and fish one after the other and tossing them into the darkness beneath the table where bottles and flasks have sunk and disappeared I separate the useful objects from those that are unwanted but errors are within the realm of possibility when that happens I wipe away the foam of feathers and fish scales and try to see what's happening outside the glass window children jumping rope the mass of a smokestack giving birth to one night finally at the call of the trees sleeping in layers of their own grain I rush out taking the shape of a single nude figure a dark image personifying training and endurance rain-soaked I go of these facts here I can tell the others

The island

Going ashore on the island the man finds amongst the crags large arched fragments of bones belonging to beasts and fish bleached by the sun as it rotates the shrunken map of a black octopus head the coast of the eyes of the man who gradually becomes horizontal is like the acute angle of the moonrise let us forget now in extremely high definition the eggs of the seabirds advance why is there no music...