Giornale is
Always a tad different matter
And texture
Depending which readings
Or circumstances
It comes to be paired
With.

The
indulgence
in
drinking
the
sky’s
tears
from
flower
petals
in
­bitter
,
Greedily
.
Reservation
made
.

•-
-•  •  •  -••
:
-  ••••  ••  -•  -•-  ••  -•  - -•
,
•- -•  - - -  •  -  ••  ••• ••  -•  - -•
,
••-•  •  •••-  •  •-•  ••  •••  ••••
•-••  - - -  •••-  ••  -•  - - •
,
-  •  •-  •-•  •••
•- - -  ••-  •••  -
•-  •••
-•••  •-•  •  •-  -  ••••  ••  -•  - -•
.
- -•  •-•  •-  •••-  •  •-•

Your Entrails
Are your own stargazer,
Own scheme matcher
And own lewd elegance:
Thoughts on thoughts on thoughts on thou-
“An asterism maker?
Roger that,
I make of issues forms
At touch
Of dots
Just like those in your beloved constellations’
Stars of more than one splotch”.

I live in some way on the edge of the world of the senses. I prolong my life with books, minute thrillances in the honourable existing through consciousness, Poetry, and I live from feelings, reflections. I barely spend time with my peers, I go to the city only when it is necessary, I don't know how to use Snapchat, Tik Tok, I don't listen to pop music, and since I don't have Facebook, you may not even consider me real. I don't engage in news, top trends or political issues. To put it in a nut shell, I am quite secluded from the global civilization.

However, something grave has recently been ignited and only two days ago did I realize what kind of slander is really happening in the country I currently am. Repressions against those who love/act differently. For what we feel, who we are with, that one wears pink or rainbow, that they are not what tradition or the wont of others expect. I saw the proud "LGBT FREE ZONE" boards on the photos. Joyful cleaning of the streets after pride marches, as if the plague of Albert Camus had passed there. Seeing non-heterosexual people as ****, like pariahs in India. That a student of one of my teachers cannot even give a new person their email due to fear. And a large part of Poland is even fine with it. To put it short, in humanitarian terms, we went back to the Victorian era or the Spanish conquests in a sense.

I do not know anything about politics. Sometimes I do not even remember who is the Prime Minister of Poland. And for many who are reading it now and don't know me, I can be nobody. But I know that I am in a way a pilgrim here and a heraldry of freedom for the world, now or later. And I have to do, give something from myself, because although words sometimes fail to express so much, at times, like dreams, they are the only thing we have left. So I write, I do what I can. Because someone has to say something more specifically.

In 2015, Chris Pueyo, a Spanish student from Madrid, published his poetic novel "El Chico de las Estrellas" ("The Star Boy") where he wrote his autobiography through his eyes and those of the third person. Without shame, he described his loves, ups and downs, the harassment from the hands  of the world surrounding him, and all the tears and his own blades of guilt and glory he had experienced and born, mainly because of his homosexual orientation, also to support others like him. So far no one has translated it into any other language and it is stuck in Spain and the countries of the South America. But I will change that. I've decided to be the first to do it. Although I'm not after any studies nor am I more than 18 years old. But I do it wonderfully, I have determination and love for the language as a person. And I have a goal. At first I thought it was because of my admiration for Chris's work and my desire to simply show it, but now I know that's not the point.

I'm doing this for You. Because in this country we lack books that free love from definitions, frames, books that discourse about our bodies or passion with their due admiration, truth and purity. So know that from now on I dedicate my work to You. To those to whom are clipped wings, words and hopes, to those who hide and want to love madly and without boundaries. To the colourful girls from my class who are not afraid to be all the shades of the rainbow with piercing and who supported me in difficult moments. To the aforementioned student of my singing teacher. I'm almost halfway through the book, I'm still waiting for an answer from the next publishers. I won't rest till I publish it for You and other personalities, even if, like J.K. Rowling, I have to go to 12 of them, because maybe those people are afraid of publishing it.

Less than a year ago I didn't know anything about LGBTQ+, I still haven't experienced any romantic perturbations in my life or ever fallen in love with any human. But thanks to the work of writers like Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Becky Albertalli, Chris Pueyo, many fanfics, articles or my own questions, I have seen how beautifully infinite, complex and simple love is, that there is nothing in it against the nature. I study God in the world, the Bible or the Koran, and I’m telling tell you that even there, in the depth of the verses, there is no absurd condemnation! I have gone through the issues of  defamed *** or nakedness into taboo and I’m saying to you: it is not unclean, forbidden, it is simply a corporeal act of devotion, our naked body is pride, not shame! Gender equality is not only the equality of man and woman, but of every person with the rest of the society. I have never experienced any serious harassment, pressure in the matter of my objects of affection, I admit it, but I do know what it's like when society wants to nail you to your biological age, body, gender, name and other ephemeral content on your ID card. Literally existential ****, in blood-stained handcuffs.

The main part of my being is The Poet. To be more precise, a "non-writing” one - poems are only a necessary medium to save my Poetry from the time, and the real one are my gestures, the doe eyes that the sky is clad in, thoughts, breath and feelings. So my task here is not forming rhymes and things into empty beauty yet bearing myself again and again in intimacy and metaphors more literal than the prose, between the verses. It is not a job, yet, for me, the most honourable identity. The path to my Home in the tears, grass, the Sacrality of Life, Myself. For this is My Love, Lover. I’m not joking. This is why I know such love and devotion though I’ve never been with any human in an intimate relationship. This doesn’t have ***, borders. Ergo I’ve never gave myself any name of my orientation, I don’t know what it would be and I don’t need to name it. I’m also a revolutionist at heart, I adore the vocal expression of the rebellion, therefore this is why I’m here. And I hope that I will be given the honour of being seen as one of You. Because this is pride. In the pride month.

I’m giving to You support greater than the word “YES” does it. My stance. And, finally, my poems. I dedicate them to You too, written partially especially due to the events taking place right now. I’m giving to Your hands my confessions entitled “And Who Are You To Be?” and “Of Feminine Touch, Of Masculine Sight”.

Don’t you ever let any being constrict your incalescent beauty of wonder. Don’t you ever let anyone claim you to be only a part of scheme, your job or any other miscellany in the bin. Just like You, I am the greatest wonder the history could have ever seen. Each one of us, on our own.

And one more thing, in reference to “The Star Boy”:
In this dead world, where dreams come
barefoot and unkempt to Nowhere,
let’s dance, like Lady Madrid,
with anarchy in the hair.

A poem
Isn’t directly Poetry,
Yet Poetry shall always take
A poem’s form
No matter what lips,
Eyes,
Thoughts
Or acts
Shall stutter it,
In the non-verbal closeness
As well,
If not even more

God’s loyalty and covenant with us,
Proved in the New Moon’s person:
Still shines bright at night
And evermore
Despite the shadows cast on us
And His/Her visage seemingly gone
From our sight.
This is hope and faith,
Shown by nature.

Every little moment,
situation,
thinking
or location
is a completely different presence
and stance of you,
no matter how similar it seems to any other,
for, like in alchemy,
existential fluids of Bowel Heart are endless,
new in every millisecond,
unique
and make varieties of you.

The antonym of befalling
to the Matrix
and its shackles of death,
injustice,
self-lost
or “drugginess”
is not exactly leading a protest,
an obvious to eyes fight
or anger-loaded activity
but in fact going away
from all the Movement
to the Stillness.
To reclaim the earth as ours
and ourselves as its,
our presence in senses,
kisses by pupils,
glances in fingertips,
honourable existing
and all the truth of our own
aside from anyone else’s claims,
facts & dampers.
That is a mutiny,
from the rush,
absence in our person,
the priorities cast on our choices
by seeming authorities.
Into doing,
being
and adoring
conscious
Nothing.

A tendency or trait I have
to sense,
comprehend what others may not,
and then for it to go
the other way round,
put all the way
into the oblivion back.
Apprehension…?

17/02/2020
Quite often,
either joking or desperate,
I wish more and more I could shoot my mind here and now
for maiming me,
my spontaneity
and all my dignity.
Whenever it brings me to a crisis
– condemns my passions,
rebellion,
astrality,
joyful freedom,
innocence,
love,
irrationality
and “thoughtset”
– every place I come to sit,
stand
or just be at,
becomes tainted,
isolating,
with miasma for air
and like an eternally prolonging waiting room.
Waiting for what?
Probably redemption seeming out of reach at such moment
Whilst amid the dark matters.
Mostly sure that’s how Catholic purgatory would be like:
****** depression,
no God,
copper taste in the soul,
tight space,
condemnation,
tower of pressure,
no greatness to behold,
no hope for another day to come.

Holding you close to my chest,
Whilst surrounded
With miasma and cacophony,
Even though I might not
Be writing in you,
Gives me a hope of redemption
And return
To my astral abode,
Where swelling silence and love
Await.

We are thoughts.
Pulses.
Somehow subjectivities.
Fleeting, yet,
once dissolved,
never tarred by the oblivion
as we stay till forever in the air
as intimacies,
apprehensions,
and those gut knittances
got by the living
when they sense
and as much suddenly
can’t explain.

God chooses for His/Her work
those with (the most) shameful pasts,
falls
or black paint
on their soul “used-to-be-there”,
the ones we might call
the **** of the earth,
for once changed
and renewed
they know God’s omnipotence,
love,
greatness
the best
and can be the most surprising
of His/Her art
in the process of creating
the New Earth
already.

In seclusion and focus
long enough to settle in,
every word or phrase
becomes an understatement
with a greater pause
and reflection to it,
whether we sense it
or not

My thoughts
are morosely
and mostly
a series of miscarriages

En trouvant plus ou moins
l’art de quelqu’un
il se demande
“Qui l’a écrit ?”.
Non, non, non !
Il devrait se demander et se préciser
„Qui l’a créé ?”
car quiconque a pu le transférer
seulement en lettres
et l’y mettre,
mais seulement le créateur,
la mère,
a pu lui baiser
avec son âme et esprit
en lui donnant ainsi la Vie

You shall know thereby
a word or message’s
been right
if your Bowel Heart
trembles at it
whilst Mind can’t wrap its head
around it
(pun intended,
as they say)

Artistic existing and being,
however it is,
comes from the verge
of the land of sense,
somehow non-consciously
and dazing,
like the prophesying Pythia,
yet not that supernaturally

One of the signs
of someone’s Poetry
in their veins
is seeing more light
in the night than day.
Dormant kitchen’s & boiling room’s
machines
emitting sounds
of twinkling stars
and water

We
Philosophers
exist with Phronemophilia
flowing through all of us
and we live off thinking
as breathing
and bearing jewels like that
to truly be

Nella faccia del Senso e di Tutte Le Cose, come davanti al Nascimiento o alla Morte, si risolvono le domande
ed anche noi con tutti i nuostri miraggi: siamo prima di tutto gli stessi bebé, impotenti,
incapabili di vincere tutto
solamente con la raggione,
deboli come porcellana che neghiamo.
I bebé che fanno lo stesso:
sognano,
piangiano,
provano di capire,
suffrono,
osano,
amano
e passano così veloce
ed invisibilemente
come cenere.
Saremo tutti giudicati
e valorati
nello stesso modo
nell’equilibrio

Dirigirse hacia alguien
con su propio nombre
es la prueba del respecto más grande
que lo de usar todos esos títulos
formales e innecesarios,
como que enfocamos el otro ser
como una persona de verdad
y de carne, hueso y alma.
Aclamamos su identidad, intimidad,
que existe tan dolorosamente en realidad con todas las sensaciones
como cualquier otra persona.
A la vez la desnudamos y saludamos,
con un coraje calmo

Thought it earlier
to be a fairytale’s trait
yet wonderfully it is
tested once for good:
you do hear the grass
growing
when in silence,
closeness
and given-over presence

Words like
“Syria”,
“Arabia”
or
“Aleppo”
somehow as beautiful sound
like oil pastels
on beige
found

Because the light and shade
of fedora’s peepholes
shines hot
like a golden mosque;
How being caught up by something
so up close
stirs fullness
and feels of attention

Poems themselves are not directly Poetry yet a written, cognitive transcription of It. A beauteous Poet doesn’t need to speak or write
to be one;
It resonates through their either tender or pondering glances,
acts,
demeanour
and kisses peppered on the universe’s matters
with eyes,
finger tips,
soles,
breath
and thoughts of Heart too complex for the Mind.
If Heart Thoughts are even greater, they turn gibberish
and may seem silent or even non-existent to seekers of the verbal.
Poetry can be every thing,
a newspaper,
understatement,
laboured breathing,
reflective walk among the trash bins, apprehension hidden behind a lonely phrase
or honourable existing
as a sole, proud activity.