Some say the world is a paradise.
Some say the world is already heaven.
Some say the world is a happy place.
But not to me.
Ordinary people see the world as a fun place.
But for me the world is sad.
The world is poisoned.
It is dying.
This place is not heaven,
This is hell.
Everyone is a demon.
But not me.
I am an outcast.
Demons see me as a fellow demon.
They know me as a demon.
They do not know me.
Of what i truly am.
They will never know me.
This place is hell.
It is dying.
And it will be dying.
This place is hell.
Where all the people go when they die.
I am dead.
Dead inside.
Inside a world where no one knows me.

Hey, wolf spider
on the bathtub bottom
scaling porcelain, slipping —
uncatchable. I want to shower.
You dodge my washcloth, you dart away.
You idiot. I’m trying to help.
Must I spray you to the drain?

Bare-***, crouching I pause,
resting my fingers on the tub bottom
when suddenly you are tickling the hairs
on the back of my hand: a greeting, an asking.
So I lift.
Rapidly I escort you to the kitchen door,
set my palm on the porch floor
where after rain there is the scent of fungus
but you remain,
you stand on my knuckles with sensitive feet
straddling two prominent veins.
You take my pulse.

I lean close,
eyeball to eyeballs unblinking.
We, both, are hairy.
We frighten women.
We mean no harm.

Suddenly shifting your perch
you read my palm:
heart line, life line, fate.
Almost a handshake.
My future, would you tell?
Then jump, Brother.
Farewell!

Nobody could possibly remember
That awful horrible thing of the past
But I can recall last year's September
A new girl who dreadfully outcast
She stood way out far away from the crowd
No one around to even speak to her
She would never mutter a word aloud
So her years here went by as such a blurr
I can no longer speak on her behalf
It is her very own story to share
But here I can show you this photograph
Of her and her beautiful golden hair
But I am sure you will not forget
The time she gave you her blue barrette

And I danced on the mellow sounds of the grammophone
With dozens of friends standing aside
And they enjoyed the feast and at least
I was overcome with joy

I sat amongst a crowd of mannequins
Their fabricated smiles warmed me
And I danced on the music of the creaking windows
Ignoring the cracks around me

We celebrated in glee and raised our glasses
A speech, they demanded
A speech, I granted

And I spoke on the spot, glass in hand
In an empty room I remained

Tempo grave, sempre sospirando

An inner nocturne
When I am writing my own opus
The ink stains carress my hand
Crossed out lines, struck down

I am my own symphony
The sad tones of E flat minor
Paint the walls of this chamber a naive black
It creases the sheet music that I play

The resonating chamber within its thorny grasp
Keep my hands from playing
As the melancholic tones
Play their song on their own


#


The piano plays
I         yet
  have
     to
       compose


The piano GLEAMS
Something


The piano SINGS
that    keeps    me


||: The piano LINGERS
From             choking
         myself


The piano SUFFERS
In an             eternal
         embrace

The   p i a n o   SCREAMS :||
The   p i a n o   CHOKES
The   p i a n o   DIES
the
      p i a n o

Of              needles
and             thorns

D.S. Al fine, senza repetizione

the magic
is that i have no home
in this world
besides you