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In the absence of a longer night and of ideal fertility, I devoured fists of poetry like that desperate one who seeks to satisfy his hunger after having been away a long time, even from himself,
I did not know where I had gotten so much in the pocket of memory and heart,
sometimes not all is lost and one realizes that there is always more space to continue learning,
keep the appetite is important
and the only thing that makes me breathe
is to write as a chinese machine
or a bot
without fatigue and without sanity
with all the weight of the words
please, not fall in love with me
because of my words
anyone can own it
but I
the only being with my composition on the face of this place
what am I?
how do I fill you?
why are you here?
what is this semi-scarred wound that burns again?

I am all women
I am all women
I am all women
Do you'll miss me?

If i run away through the mountains just to become water from the river?

Do you'll come here to see me flow? to compare myself with your vains blood?

Purple, green, grey?

Do you'll swim into me?

Do you'll jump to my crib?

My serenade, velvet lover,

I would crumble like a blowing star,

If you pleas.

But now, it's time to let it go, slip, i'm under, glorious benedicting water.
And yes,
scars were left in the shadow of fear
and the agony sang every night,
but my kindness is untouchable
and I am eternal as the prairies.
And yes,
I collapsed like an avalanche,
a flower mutilated in the summer,
but remember:
Simplicity does not age,
I'm not helpless,
even if I look fragile
as a palace of glass,
I am sraight as a tree.
And yes,
there will be cold and difficult hours
but not lost roads
no forbidden voices
but a generous sun,
but breath of inspiration.
And yes, that will be me:
'There are so many things in you
and they are all so delicious"
7th may 2019
Deer Lake CA
poetry don't work for anyone else
like to the desperates
who do not find peace in world
and it lacks equanimous beauty to the terrible
to agony
what is wrong
disfigured
deranged
forgotten
poetry is the cradle of crazy
that beyond philology
they look for a motherly hug in words
poetry is not a show
it's the very current of life
and you can see the roots when walking
it's erring from being in being
recreating again and again
in its metamorphosis
poetry is the sweet song of mythological beings
something that we do not see but in which we believe
a spell
a contraption
between paths that slopes
and plunges without rest
The more I observed the photograph
more soul acquired.

Suddenly it seemed to expel air
directly from her lungs:
transpire,
think,
be sad and then
disguise it.

Suddenly she seemed to want to say something,
to take a look at the light — Careful, careful — with a stare.

Lips loose,
defined,
wanting to form a smile that never comes.

Sparkling eyes that pierce the atoms.

Calmed eyes from the ocean.

Eyes of moon and sun that observes everything.

A silence of complicity was present
in the atmosphere of the room.

And she, who knew her as my self,
suddenly it was not just a photograph.

Every stroke of her face
forced me to return more strongly
to that moment
in which I caught the life.
I like to take refuge in the dark, especially in the corners, where absolute darkness reigns, where only she is allowed, where not even the shadow transcend.
And nothing more serene my soul cut by the vileness, than the primitive feeling of the abyss, a chasm that relieves, that listens, that dissolves.
And I, I am a scammer camouflaged in the bark of that tree, my pupils on you, breath of bark, heart of wood, try a bonfire in my guts.
Scammers, let's play a game, let's hide inside ourselves again and again until we lose ourselves in the labyrinth of judgment.
Let's ****** ourselves with the lies and the characters that we have created, let's go out and give scene to our obviousness, to our weaknesses that sometimes are so alien to us.
Let's go loose, out of control, howling for the severity of our gross acts.
Let's laugh at everything, here in the darkness.
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