my life ends here / on a Sunday’s evening
after the cross and the globe on the church’s steeple became cooler
I have never felt more non-pain non-love non-fear
the asphalt feels empty and dull for my soles / the resounding box lost its echo
I step further asymmetrically / my soul is slanting / I have no better thing to do

than to stare at people right into the whole / the full of them
without any thought
only the shadow of my elbow embraces other shadows
en passant
silhouette after silhouette
Modigliani’s women / Brâncuşi’s magic birds
la dolce morte della luce
everything flows into thoughts / thoughts into other thoughts even Charon’s boat
and right now my lips paralyzed to stop me from proving something

at first the woman sits in the man’s hand when he’s resting
if he goes to work he leaves her in a dimple on the bed sheets
she yeasts like dough
she raises
and picks all flowers all apples all grains
he comes back and sees the disaster
powerless
he sees into her belly through the tips of his fingers
she sweeps and cleans afterwards
the patch of earth they sit upon together

the man and his woman
untie the comets’ tails with their hands united
they’re a supercontinent for a moment
if they break apart unnamed oceans and archipelagos emerge
under the front of his head the front of her head and so on

good morning
with half opened eyes you can see your life
running like a fairy at the window
shaking the cherry flowers from her hair
raising the train of her dress between her fingers
it would have been unusual not to fall in love
not to see growing among clouds
swans in pairs white hearts in pairs
while you sip your rosemary tea
good morning I command to you
if you stare with wide opened eyes
you see this life
an old cocotte with thick makeup and dilated nostrils
sniffing you as if you were half dead
throwing on your table the dry bread and the hard boiled egg
take it there’s no time for bargain take a drop of sunshine
a pinch of salt on your tongue
swallow at once
like this...open your eyes very slowly until your lives begin to wrestle
and smash one another until dust

it is mid summer I stumble like a woman
in which people have never seen the woman
ecce mulier
the summer sky opened up
there will be no more earthquakes or wars
it is nice lukewarm and easy going
things don’t tumble altogether towards the center of the earth
neither the lovers’ eyes nor the jealousy that haunts them
because they are happy
nor the love for your neighbor because it is envied


sing a song you fiddler man
for the girl from the white little house
here where I am allowed to be myself
the others are not sincere when a lonely woman
lives as if in a train compartment
rises and falls together with the moon
(I could have caught it in my bread basket
to cut a slice of it but I am not craving)
I am too simple without secrets
my whole life I got older in a stays ball dress
singing to myself from the window
praying to my angel to make me stronger


how many wishes can I pretend to possess
when I have never wished something for real
it was always something more important more painful
closer to me the one without beginning or end
something that could have been
you are my brother you are my sister
I am the one who draws the gate’s bolt
even if the garden is deserted
things must stay in their place laws must be respected
fences have to stand up


I shall buy lottery tickets to win at least a hope
if my astrological sign is lucky
if there were enough comets going around
trying not to die like a soldier
I am neither man nor gardener to plough for the seed of my dreams
nor monk to sing halleluiah
ecce mulier my lord
the pain is stronger on my waist
on the upper and lower halves I already froze
enough for you to pass over on foot without breaking me


I went astray in another world
I will never be at home I will never part completely
I’m a shadow’s bride but whose I don’t know

if man doesn’t have a normal percentage of insanity
the others smell him
alike the cat that finds out which kitten isn’t hers
they nudge him and push him aside
he will go stray from corner to corner all of his life
he will dry alone in his shell like a snail
without tasting the fruits of this earth
and he will die stretched in his bed like soft dough
rolled and thinned between fingers

it is so easy to **** me unknown brother
carved Samaritan image
do yourself a favor I’m an undecided blotch of color
indigo reaching for purple
shut at once the book you read from
and I’ll become a butterfly with my wings crucified
on two pages

~~~
maybe because of the need to forget
I see death as a hindrance on the wheel of torture
a camphorated ointment for nervous fibers ends
I’m closer today to the tree for hanging the noose
from which God forbid you to taste
look vanitas vanitatum
Yorick’s head lies on your plate when you receive your alms
the candle the baked apple and the wheat porridge helping

~~~
I stand up facing the wall
my voice isn’t yet untied
I wonder what is stronger and if the heart tips the scales
my achy breaky heart
on the balance between life and death
there are a few extra grams of soul
we will need very tiny jewellery weights
psalm 103
Fibonacci’s series the golden ratio

~~~
look my child the soft carpet
my warm body upon which you step this sacred day
my soles are thin they stick to the red clay
I turn upon the potter’s wheel
my everlasting mentioning
like I was that’s how I’ll stay
a crumb of Eucharist bread on the lips
the first and the last

the sky is heavy the eyes of the dolls are murky…
here are too many horror masks
clowns grinning washing their makeup
in the same laundry basin
one last love dies
under the glass turned upside down like an hourglass
over the ill back of the world
and how beautiful it was in the beginning
so spoke the Sybils with crystal voices  


I clasp my fists because of pain and she mounts up my heart
breaks my brain as if half of a nut
steals me beyond my chastity belt
and everyone says they still want
another stain on the bride’s dress
another drop of red wine on the shroud
another icon smeared with wax and locked in gold frame
my God why did you allow all this…


in the secret garden a nobody’s child
bites from a bitter cherry
he wanted to grow up to go round the earth
but the lily wreaths dried up too early
because only death isn’t for free we will disappear
I too and my white bird too