living underground is
a drag, pulling levers
for knitting
gray sweaters
for the workers
that pull levers

love rows through
rivers of raw meat,
both banks laden
with gargantuan flies

she blinked at me
twice today

the crest of her dark hair
seemed a gloomy ship
in the maelstrom,
consumed halfway
to the mast

we **** with the arrow pointing down
at the fallen, we strike without mercy.

we stretch looking at the compass,
no idea where else
to look for meaning,
because the pages have
caught fire, spontaneously,
leaving the world
without words to follow.

we **** with the arrow pointing down,
lost in the aim of the compass.

Surely you’ve realized,
Chopin is more than
a late night run
through dark alleys.

It becomes a compromise
to wake up
every single morning
of your life
with a spring.

Relatively speaking,
flowers blooming on
your knitted socks,
and the frenzied
mating of bluebirds.

Regardless of dark
blood-drenched thoughts
traversing the room
it shall feel like
a sun lives there.

Sure there is always
Marche Funebre
but nobody
will notice
a dead body
in such magnificent
weather.

Arcane;
red morte…
a
dear
incident
looming;
laconic
odyssey.

After riddling mad.
Austere dreams
indulge
long layered
overcoats.