this absurdity of words blowing up the windows
so that some forget their names
life crumbles in rooms without walls
we are trapped between the skin and the moon
the world prepares us for dying in the most explicit way
through its calculated violence
trapped in the hive of fear
she is also an enlightened despot
one might get trapped without noticing
when we want to be free to be kite tamers
escape routes vanish in the dictatorship of cruelty
blood is currency in the exchange of illusions
one day can last as long as a life time
the horizon brings no relief from sunset

when the world gets unbearable I retreat into the purity of words
do I own this heart or she owns me
an excedent of beats today as if I was traversed by an invisible sigh
my thoughts are a nomadic population searching for a soil without fear
death presents itself as an indifferent character, a secondary thing, an involuntary business, the latest fashion
who cares about the pain of the air
the skin of hours can hardly hold minds under siege
nights melt time like wax while I need to look at helplessness from a different angle
an unpredictible trajectory decides for the mornings we wake up into
there is space in the centre of words while the sky is eroded by death's toys
the eyes stand in the way some say we must die on earth to be born in the sky,  the sky disagrees, the dust clots
there are patches of blue sky somewhere, there is enough silence to hear the explosions in one's head or the augmented beauty of sleep
power miscalculates its claims in the impermanence of bones

I was contemplating the interlude of breathing
the tease of the jasmine perfume
a wind without insight was resting in the hammock
a solitude round like the moon
the song of birds was inviting a blue exuberance  when
I had this dream... I dreamt streets flooded by blood
they seemed so real, like the amnesia of mercy
the intensity of red an amplifier for pain
violence this enclave of the soul hidden in plain sight
we watch wars on tv in the stillness of sofas
newborn tears claim the redemption of dawn
but we turn our back to the questions of time
no body line of thought but raw nerves,
blind tongues: as if our body is a world full of nothing
sometimes I have nowhere to hide from this feeling:
my blood is his/her/their blood

is it a daimon is it a bliss, a market sentiment,
this chase: fill your life with incredible experiences
how does it feel an ideology of sensation
when linden trees smell phenomenal,
the birds follow their heart of air
the sensuality of summer light simmers on the skin
I can simply watch the grass exulting, the involuntary smiles,
the pain of love's plight, the serenity of the morning tea
the poliphony of noise in an age of anxiety
the song of my shoulders attuned with sight
incredible when seeing is believing that there is innocence
even in the dark

i follow pain everywhere she wants to take me
she reveals a cosmos in a tear,
the layers of time kept together by the vitality of light.
silences rest in between our dreams
the clouds are enough for the wind
branches enough for the birds
love is holding its antonyms with gentleness
i follow pain into the camera obscura of hope
wars are trapped in the flash of words without flesh.
the lament in the loops of time, so much

The memory of leaves heals me, but first I had to detonate the emptiness in my mother's gaze. Today this me summons all dreams for a clinical examination. Life must move forward to the confrontation of  horizontal and vertical truths: the tenderness of growing wheat, the serenade of aging. The innocence of my hands denounces its longevity. I split my days in two: countable and uncountable or dreaming and nondreaming. I suffer this continuous birth:  words invent me like an age without history. It must be said though: a historical smoke comes out of them. On a day like this beauty is tough, I speak with a seemingly exiled tongue. No return for dreams disguised in blind storcks.
When I look around I see all the way to New York or Cape Town how this world is oppressed by an aboundand impatience to find the point of no return for the sea level. I see the future where I never existed. Our own shadows crush us but we blame it on the sun's karma. I blame everything on love's echo.

the wind reads me well
I'm a nomad of time
a pulse like a prophecy
whispers myself to me

the sky is wet like a mouth
the light extremely fragile
bellow people keep fighting, dancing, dying
a soothing sustance, this perfume fills my nails unassuming
the real & the imaginary fuse & diffuse each other

imagination keeps you real
by chance tears feed the earth
we need the continuity of gestures
the prelude of silence foretells the foxtrot of words
a dream clarifies the windows, solidifies the doors
like a tide of awe against the void

When does the butterfly in flight read what’s written on its
wings? Pablo Neruda
Humans cannot bare too much reality. T.S. Elliot

what is
lost in a labyrinth of questions crushed by height
only the sky is the limit is the lie. lies have borders
"What is it you want?" asks Ivan Ilych
“What do I want? Not to suffer. To live”
in their words a map of darkness
the heart of stones stops. it's so
easy to split the light with digital words
the immunity of the herd shelter for violence

I recognize the feeling as I recognize the shadow of words
it makes poetry bleed out of dreams
we understand so well how Oedipus was manipulated by fate
thoughts without borders hide from themselves
when the world is unthinkable the mind is a no man's land
their smile  an eclipse of blood, in the middle of noise
life fights with its own scream

the certainty of tears pushed far away... behind the gaze till it spews hatred
a cry: the brides have forgotten to wear white,
digital happiness is unbearable
solitary selves search for communion but
the antihero doesn't ask who he is
this thought experiment terrorizes the inception of morning

a never ending cycle the desire
spectacular lives clash with normative statements
the empty father dillema in a fatherless society: some are afraid to be swallowed by the womb of the world
the resurection of the canon: the cross is hungry
let's discover these embalmed animals: our hearts

lay down the blade of thought
linden trees are blooming

the sacralisation of politics takes place when more or less elaborately and dogmatically, a political movement confers a sacred status on an earthly entity (the nation, the country, the state, humanity, society, race, proletariat, history, liberty, or revolution) and renders it an absolute principle of collective existence, considers it the main source of values for individual and mass behaviour, and exalts it as the supreme ethical precept of public life. Emillio Gentile

the circles of time so possible. the hero radicalises the mirrors. in the middle of seeing a barricade, we don't know how to overcome it's truth. reality fights with itself. i have no one to cry with. time is dripping. the violence of words. the violence of thoughts. the violence of lies. the violence of dreams. the violence of reducing life to a grammatical structure. the violence of destroying what is real. there is violence on every side. there is hope. words are weapons for massification. the captive mind needs a voice. the innocent mind sleeps in a fragile bed.
i cry alone. you cry alone too. a woman cried alone among passersby. crying together it's unthinkable on an ordinary day. is it freedom that is dripping hour by hour, day by day?
the show goes on, let's make peace a fake in remake. no famine in Gaza cause people got used to eating stones. the news is incessantly breaking. an invisible menticide, our digital fingers won't recognize what kind of substance the skin is. laughter is not enough for everybody.  i watch the clouds decomposing themselves with eagerness. everything is what is supposed to be.  closed minds in closed bodies. birds are carrying our thoughts like broken paddles.
the permafrost of drama can finally see the daylight. violence is unbearable for me. a circle is closing, a new one begins.

I have toast and panick for breakfast
there's so much noise & scrolling without end
(I am/you are/he is just islands in the middle of words and infinite scrolling)
the coffee machines just lost their purpose in radical mornings
time explodes in our veins while
I'm dreaming of  blue hours

the room of tears was waiting for someone suited for grace,
for bridging the gap between our wounds
a dream of togetherness filled with white smoke
the joy winged and grounded
as the immanence of the divine
tears roll with a new hope to find generosity
in the human form