look into the morning mirror
slow shave and study dull eyes
looking back



a floor full of masks the passed ones may have dropped
he falls onto the ceiling, nose pressed onto the frieze
and she puts on heavy-shoes and has to hook him back downwards
it takes morning starch and bitter coffee to make ceiling dust shy
fashion is thrown out on its cracked sheen
as the carried mode entails only generic style and empirical fall



Let me sniff your armpit
Let me sniff it, please
I'm looking at you stand before my eyes
I see you right here.. before my very eyes



a pigeon on a windowsill
such a lovely unexpect!
it flies inside - harmony beheld
creates a stir
into a pane, stunned.. and life is expectorated
disposal wants to occur too fast and something
                                                                          
            breaks inside him

system slave runs forward, grabs its soul
and hurries out slow

gray panels of cement amidst more gray panels
lodged between silvery towers and metal clink
olfactory-core comes nerve alive

( . . . )




he stands before the glass and looks upon her face
whose eyes may show no grief
clothed in vest and heavy foot
he unclips the last vestige
fully cognisant
and off he goes
to shock of passerby
he looks up to see the truest, bluest sky


and looks down to see the small figure
of her
receding.. receding.. receding ..




duty of kissing ceilingdust is in the past and

so is
living in slow-reverse