C.124

Sirocco’s wind:
air change,
I fly away.
Whirlwind of life
still in the shell
of a stubborn turtle.
Words,
mad literature
and music stops when heart stops.
Good news
in the overpass
between the landslide and the renovation.
Embryonic restoration of a castle of cards and an iron core.
Play with fire,
love like Catullus
and be a little smarter than Icarus.

Swim, swim, swim
up to over there
where there is no one,
to be alone
with the sea.
Wind on the skin,
goose bumps trigger:
imagining the caresses,
remembering the writings on the sand now erased,
that follow their own footsteps
repeatedly,
until the wave can no longer find them.

Subscribe yourself to suffering
Let’s climb houses’ roofs
to feel high.
We do petition to receive free hugs.
We feel chased,
then replaced,
therefore betrayed.
Hold up! We understood each other.
Struggling with our limits
we are the survivors:
after being warned,
we are healed.
But we are always hardened spirits, satellites, meteorites,
who taste forbidden fruits:
Infinite.

What do you say?
I feel that you shine
But what are you saying? Worse than a brain wringer, you comb my hair,
You donate me some pastel. Corals,
horses.
I find inspiration
and I feel like a champion
and not an imitator:
with Passion
I find my position:
Ciak: action!

I would like to write on your back
The reality seen by my way
and then compare it with yours,
to remind you to always be yourself
but with a little more of me on;
to remind you that, yes, it’s easy to escape,
but not when a person is tied right on your body,
feeling the pen strokes that make you shiver, reminding you to believe
in the life that you desire.

Worn out soles
by the countless steps
on stones
on symmetry between sky and sea on asymmetry of the roads
worn out as well
tired
never ever so much
to cease the desire to walk
and observe
my skin
crash with new airs
new breaths
new skins
that I imagine touching mine enough to tremble
and dream
to make visible to eyes
outsiders
strangers
love between day and night sunrise and sunset
hands through hair
hands between life
and the kiss
on the forehead
everywhere.

Tidy
but heedless
sometimes
with consumed polish on the nails the ink on the hands
that doesn’t take off
words don’t wash
or the stains of laughter
innocent exchanges of smiles young
and me here
stupid that I still write
of past trains
full.
Then recognize the right one.

Imaginary loves are these that I describe and live.
I don’t deprive myself of them,
Because they act like a diversion,
Since they are an emotional and creative attempt to play, And to keep on the skin a brand,
A scrawl by a youth artist collector
of past memories, scared,
forgiven
and of researched futures Grabbed to the unknown. Antidote of Glory:
we write our history,
page after page
and we keep it in the cellar until it becomes divine.

Hidden in the streets
I remain elate by the prospects
And the slow movements that I cling to relieve myself from noises.
The balance, however, still marks melancholy and I let myself be crossed by the rapid intermittent light headlights.
I swallow grainy flavors of which I engage soporific mechanisms by lying
helpless
tickled by life.

Let it be,
how does the skin taste:
without questioning it invites you to taste every little snap
of verve
of shiver
which leaves a bruise
colorful,
multi-colored.