i swear
because of the logo
on my watery blue jeans
a hurricane in scala ridotta
used the fabrics in a way
inspired by
irma
katrine
or maybe florence

though coffee never
I could see in the corner
René Magritte, tacitus
handing me the lovers
lovers under a white quilt
he didn't bother
only my fingers
on the tiny postcard
induced the feeling of
evanescence
that night I was alone…
my venerated lover
which down the river flowing
initiated slowly
a strong concupiscence

my spine coughs
pain,
****** smoke
& anger drives
my vertebrae
to get close
to the heart
& cleave it
caves
with bony blood
wave

we are humble
facing our own fragility
but then boasting about
seeds scattered
beggars helped

we are like traces
of consumed chemicals
first we shine
in different colours
& then no one
even notice it

we are like rain
in drought
first we help
the grass
& then it covers us
with green

we are like pages
from a new book
that read
is then left on a shelf
to gather borders
of dust

disfigured eyes of mine
I have them in my hand
they don't wish to see
& tremble like the end
people throw dark ashes
my orbs are almost full
& suddenly I lost
my memories,
the falling eyes' thud
that carmine of the blood

papers, a fire ripped
them in halves & thirds
poets, with a quiet complaisance
were scarcely producing a grin
they were glad about the fire's
wild presence
together around it
the last pieces of memory
were declaimed
in a rowdy choir

papers, burnt to ashes
covered dead poets society
no one was breathing
or noising
though in the air the life was alive,
herself shouting
"the poets laughed
with the hope that
their masterpieces will not be used
to make fun of people anymore"

A home for butterflies
A honeycomb
A fly
A toothless comb
An endless sky?

My university notes
On the desk sleep alone
All my beautiful thoughts
Can immediately burn

I wake up in the nights
And ask them of me
How stiff is the wood
Without your only protégé

I am arranging my writings
In a book, to save them
But my beautiful thoughts
Can still immediately burn

look in the face
of that insomniac
with its motley features
with its amber leaves
a park is never sleeping
so, in the night to talk
be a night-walker
with open-minded robe
be naked
no clothes
no thoughts
only a book, a friend
your park
its friend
be close
no clothes
no thoughts....