I think I actually
Hate this feeling.
You’re not supposed to
Make me nervous.
You’re not supposed to
Plant seeds in my mind,
Strange seeds that grow strange fruit.
Or, at least you didn’t used to.

I don’t know why I bother at all.

I never did say
That it was a good idea
Did I?

Farewell: we don't eat,

it just seems that way, as you --


also see in plays.

When we say goodbye,

my waving hand trembles, but --


father doesn't notice.

caught off guard
by yet another downpour
unprepared again
he could shelter
from the torrent
tormenting
and tempestuous
beneath the hung branches
of this laden tree
overreaching
beyond its means
but he knows
it cannot keep him dry
for as long as
he might need
from bough to branch
to leaf and bud
down the back of his neck
through layer upon layer
soon sodden and soiled
those discomforting drips
will expose that
which he didn't want
exposed

Sometimes I feel defeated
by the fact that socks
can make or break my day
How the same socks
worn numerous times before
can suddenly make me feel
Too tense
Too triggered
Too trapped

Uncomfortable socks is an omen
of the bad things to come
if I walk out the front door
Yet when I have a bad socks day
I find the strength to continue
Safe in the knowledge
that when the day ends
I can throw them on the floor
Upon the heaps of ***** laundry
That I'm not in trouble for

Everything is there,

but it gives me no idea --


what to do with it.

There is no good ending
The sun goes down
without colouring heaven

No birds, no music
I don't even cry
just say: so, goodbye then

It sounds so easy
but I look away and wait
until it's over

When did you slip away from me?
When did we stop talking
about what we don't understand

and gradually didn't know
about each other anymore
not each other's anymore?

the well is dry
i cannot collect water
i cannot sustain life

the river is swollen with toxic mud
i cannot cross to the other side
i cannot escape this

the grasslands have not seen rain in many years
the smallest spark could destroy this place
and i am awash in static

i sit under a long dead tree
and try to rest
and try to remain still

for to move is to cause a cataclysm
yet to remain stagnant is to cause my own demise

the wildlife that did not flee the drought have perished
the scavengers that came to pick apart the carcasses are gone as well

only i remain
the monarch of nothing
but bones and barren earth

I found myself aboard a midnight train,
I left Salerno for Milan
listening to Her for Five Minutes,
Simon used to sing this song.
Come si chaima?
She asked as a drug's side effect,
Soft grin and all she may not have spoken French, Spanish,
nor English but music is the universal language after all.

Love in retrospect like a butterfly effect,
Sua, Cinque Minuti.
a quiet smile,
between laughter and silence
filled her face.
She came from Verona, to visit family,
I came to see the city where God met the Sea.
Lui dice, l'amore che non ti aspetti?
Her voice, a dream complete,
the universal language in tones and  beats.
Galileo of Galilei finally free,
my heart a quivering seat.

I expected to fall asleep,
but mistakes you don't regret,
an angel's voice inside your head.
errori di cui non ti sei pentito, è amore, non è vero?
She said, as rain translated words obsolete.
love is something you don't regret.
I don't know her name,
but all I need is five minutes,
to feel her voice in my imbibition,
a reminder of a midnight train precognition.

You finally said
You wanted me to leave though
I'd already tried to