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.

Of beige gaze.
Premonition in the river cast passing.
Would those trees looming
uncertain by gravity
fall on us?
The effort tried in setting
oar’s agility,
so as not to
Hit the sides,
For my own persistence
And calm,
willed mistakes is.

As.
Calm.
Demeanour.
Wills.
In steel.
As bliss.

Bliss such of slipping
out of boat’s grasp
to that of illusionary time,
Out of speech’s hold,
Tenfold,
From how summer moulds.

Head out,
it,
I will
to lying in river’s sole
fine line of freeze,
Who holds dear the mute,
those who feign not appurtenance
of this world,
As the sail companion’s
left to thinking.

Though oars may hit the shore
Lungs in silver lining stay aboard.
Face backwards.
And the bottom separating
River and Boat
will pretend its existence
No more.

I walk
and my laudability
can’t be taken
Off.

As a current like I
Runs air-tight bubbles.

/And the sounding:
SHeeSH | CLing |LiNK |
SHeer | CRinge | PLinTH |.

FLOW, mOUld me SOre/

What wonder with
Poetry in Prose,
and
Prose in Poetry,
those two together
made at
once,

what Art is that
whilst those
trespass borders
of what’s cognitive and not,
my true form of wording
and existing
being
as that!

That is a feat,
mingle those two together,
make one fluent into train of events
by the other
and the other make
the former
an extravagance
that should reign
on us!
The most forming way
of expression verbally
and not!

And what experience would that be
if we took under account again
the spaces
and
the “Enter” key
between verses
in a classic poem structure,
to think how that changes
everything and what
respect it demands
in each line
differently!

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

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.

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

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

I still have to and follow the inquiry
to learn to belove
at paid attention
every face
shaping
I encounter.
Because there is no fleeing
from any of them
when I look in the mirror
well
(and in dark glazed)

This idea
is so distorted,
transfixed,
to mark our bodies
as shame
or lack of respect
when in their maternal
******,
that rags
they wear
ornate us
and dictate
what our respect
is
when it is completely on
the contrary
and such rules
made by society
are claimed to be of God.
Our nature and self-confidence
of it
(can)
make even the most
shaggy rags radiant
and worth of envy.
As if coming to meet Them
purely from your own
will so eager no matter
if you’re even
just
in
a
towel
didn’t count as a great
act of devotion.
That ****** is illegal,
that beaches where you can be
non-clad are
only for the “major” persons
(because underage ones
are supposedly
not
in their right mind),
and as Dante Quintana,
my eponym,
noticed truly:
how shoes
are unnatural
and how not wearing them
is not
a sign of poverty
or lousiness.

We don’t need Music
And how
It embodies, captivates,
To know that each other and
Ourselves have
And are a
Majesty in reverberating
As we
Drop,
Echo,
Beat,
On a country lane.
Even when no one
Is listening to
Us, Melody, or better;
a sensation of & in it,
Our silence contains
In one thought
More chords and stories
To be played than
The world’s bonding
To the audibility
Could ever do
And draw the greatness
From.

Like violin, I’m
Such honey-laced strings
In swiftness
Thinking and by lips
Browsing.

As. Like.
furious heartbeat
tremendously stands
On a thrilling stave
So do us at the sunset
As a dance.
As a thrilling epiphany
Behold
.

/
I always imagine becoming Revolution soon to come
As departure through a heather field,
Hands raised in elegant victory
Decreasing I into horizon
as lilac, blue and copper scarlet
Infused with that painting
As I sound Violin.
/

Then,
‘Am
the
greatest
art
in
every.
single.
step
.