I could write about a woman
who sounds like Johnny Mitchell’s
Alcoholic tobacco mix
I could act a strange attachment
to the Middle Ages
Or to learn that I don’t know-how
to keep quiet about my love
I can be a cloud or a tree that are always there,
but they emerge from us
i may be the lack of touch
that excites more than touch wants
Before Monday is Sunday,
and Sunday is the day that oughta pass on
There are days you don’t trust right away.
Exactly why you find them attractive.
the kind of days you fall in love with.
Because of the breath of carnival and erotic currents
Closed in winter and promiscuous in summer
A woman trapped in a male name. And vice versa
Tanned fabric, with Egypt sticking through.
Nile, Crocodile skin
Embracing your High Noon in the Louvre
as if carrying a plaque on its grave
On the back, Michelangelo and naked statues
Both, crooked teeth and a huge tompus
And they trembled and quivered and fumed.
Being a chimney among the cherries in bloom
Strikes with echoes and some memories
Early spring is relentless, always has been.
When pigeons walk harmlessly in front
of the doors of the madhouse
and branches of bureaucratic hell
It strikes now as the bird’s wing
slams into the counter glass
Dogs stay longer
Finally, they die too
you can be a minuscule that will live for you
“Not to speak ill of the dead”
So they told you,
I’ve told myself along the way.
‘good afternoon”” Good evening’
how are you’
“Today, it’s the hottest day of the summer.”
Just passing the time of day
Some deaths come to make others’ lives easier
My words will survive slander, speculation,
anonymity and controversy
I’m the big Division eye, I’m my own deity
the gods are not to blame,
they have taken and embraced it firmly
what they were offered
to make it easier for them to fill their heads,
they must first be emptied
I can’t distinguish a diadem from a bag of potatoes
the silence underlines that I’m just whining
grey, blue, colourful,
all this wanted to love and be loved
Watch the willows sway,
the shadow ran out before the hand of death
and the whisper of life
the bullet erodes the body
from a lonely void to a deep silence
like the sound of it losing itself
in the deaf wind
fifteen years of life, as a mistake.