The lights dazzled their eyes
but illumined their faces
like two children drowned in surprise.

The air smelled of freshly baked food
the girls dressed in their best
giggled in utmost festive mood.

The two strangers passed through rows of light
that quickly transformed day into night
and the only beats louder than their heart
were the noise of heels quicker and smart.

One moving faster paused to find
the other had fallen behind
and soon remembering the six years between them
broke his pace to be with him.

They were dreamily moving when they reached the strand
where the river sparkling with lights
drew them to her bank for some rest.

From there they flew on wings
to extract all they could on one night
passing the musics, and the church chimes
like they were on their last flight.

When everything else fell apart
the joy still rang in their heart
and the two brothers with moistened eyes
headed towards another sunrise.

Born and die we are,
No one is superior or inferior.
Equal in the end.

Never!!
I adore my body,
Like one's Ferrari,
Not a dent should come on it.
27/2/2024

Bartender, bartender, tell me a tale
while you sell me a pint of whatever's on sale
-Traditional

Barflies stuck not in amber
but in soft varnish on pine,
steel pole legs scraping the planks:

men bluster in bleary candor
while women lay it on the line.
We at the bar give golden thanks

for this wet and flickering space,
tended by our good mistress
who heals most open wounds...

but not mine. With a tired grace
I slip outside, dissatisfied, listless
under the frozen starless dunes.

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

my gaze on rose trees
as the buds burst with colours
scissors hesitate.
26/2/2024