The game was fine.
We smiled and even cracked some jokes.
The music was dull, but we didn’t mind.
We couldn’t care less,
as long as we had each other’s wallet.
The artist was being tortured in the book and
there was nothing in our head and heart that could save us
from falling off.
What a bunch of nonsense you poured in our glasses,
as the wine left them to enter our mouths, throats and bellies.
By the end of the show I was drunk and sad,
without any direction,
without a meaning,
a purpose,
a goal
or whatever fancy word you’d to use to describe my numb life.

The mind game was fine, until you lost your game and I lost my mind.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2LFVWBmoiw

If I ever forget to be afraid,
please break all my windows
and leave me behind,
in joyful sadness.

There’s no time
to plan our future!
the past really keeps us busy.
Please go!

Roll my head in duct tape and
take me to the natural park of your rib.
YOU gotta invent me now.
I think it’s only fair!
Just return the bible favor and let’s get it over with.

There’s no time to change our minds –
everything’s happenin’ so fast
and we fall in love with ourselves so **** slow.
I wanna run.

It seems that no one knows what they want,
Night becomes day and day becomes a monkey.
There’s nothing here for us anymore.
We used science to invent God and
God to invent hope
and even more science to fight God and
more gods to **** people's brains
and then more science and prayers and
miracles don’t exist anymore!

They’re only wars and
people running from people.

One might think that we just
don’t know what we want.

I don’t wanna listen!
it was nice and all that
but my heart broke along the way and
three of its chambers are flooded.
no handy man can fix it now.
me and you.. IT don’ work!
it’s not an oxymoron, nor an enigma ! no!
the fact that I’m an ox, a *****, a pretentious ***** and you, an enigma..
that don’t change anything!
we are unable to begin again.
we made it once. we should be happy and look back in hunger.
we were on the first page of newspapers but,
somehow,
we ended up in
the matrimonial section – the place where
poetry ends.

I am the member of a one-man extremist army
That fights for the right to be (mis)understood.
I keep my gun tidy and all covered in a
crazy-*** knitted scarf.
I only shoot it when I’m alone in my head.
I always miss.

I fly below the human emotion radar and
Pray that someone will DVR my life
And binge watch it from the comfort of his/her dusty old couch,
Up in the attic, when nothing else is on TV and
Jimmy Fallon’s all tucked in his zebra pajamas.

I will climb the highest fountain
And whisper waterly in your transplanted ear:
“I am Vincent.. I am your yellow.. I am your ubiquitous sunflower..”

Just change the channel and the weather will do the same thing.
Bye bye bye, birdie! Bye bye bye, climate change!
I’m nothing but an echo’s echo.

It all suddenly felt right.
I could run,
and cry,
and say yes,
and everything was an animated representation of reality -
just like Family Guy.

makes it hard for me to breathe,
difficult to see and
impossible to understand this complex mechanism of inside-out
feelings.

I should’ve known by now
that one foot cannot do well without
the other,
that I am merely a one way ticket to
one of Jupiter’s moons,
that one without two
is a stranger to three
and that this will all end one day
in a big blast!

Stranded between Tom Hanks' Wilson
and Aylan’s sandprint,
I won’t be of much use to you;
just like a viral video that you share with your friends,
on a Monday morning and,
then, again, after a couple of months. Funny gas inside
some old abandoned car’s  tank.

makes it hard to be serious
about life,
difficult to die and
impossible to commit suicide.

I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.

I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.

I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.

I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.

I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****,
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.

I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****,
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.

I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.

You have my word!

I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.

I will be perky. I will be green.