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.

Perhaps a more difficult thing
in further and further life ebbing
is the vividness,
own quality guarded,
and fulfilled attention working
and standing
without any current or prospective actions or events going through,
when there’s no other (mind) occupation now or soon
than the following going on
and living itself.

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

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”.

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.