The sadness of the rain
falls
over the happiness of process
we go down to the corners
and take a piss
to avoid the police
and the exuberance of being guilty
then we go back inside
where despair is dissipated
towards the music
and
the noise
makes us forget all the pain
that made us cry in the dark
of a summer night
let’s be brave
betray
so we drink, drink, drink
and then we talk
talk and talk
the flowers on the wallpaper
made with the scent
of the spring
we never had
this is the wood
the glass
the concave walls
the drunk echo
nobody will record
for the annals
of
history.
existencial poetry
catharsis begun
The days have expired
if I was once a shadow
now I am smoke
tomorrow?
perhaps the empty pause
between two despairs
the sky is black tar
my distant vault
stained by the vapor
of every perspired minute
I made my hands cups
the recipients of beauty
but it would not rain
clear skies with
excess of stars
dizzied by this overhead
backdrop
I made up posthumous names
for my fetus hands
tomorrow?
a lie
a song
a purposeless
flight.
deepest
I release a deep breath
unawares of anything
I’ve been away
weaving dreams
like a curing madness
the petty circumference of my desire
impels me to
move
not one finger
an inertia comparable
to an everlasting god
that has lived a thousand infinities,
in the deepest streets
in the coldest thoughts
I am a reckless survivor
dreaming in poetry
as a small pebble
tucked away
under the entire
weight
of the universe.
I turn my head
finally
after days:
the streets are covered with snow.
I’ve been unaware
like the boy
quietly placing a dot
after every sentence
of lyrical self-absorption:
the consequence
of being
irrelevant.
just arrived
It was the simple joy
that comes
when struck for the first
time by the world
the world and my ideas!
the world and my expectations!
the world and my darkly routes!
it was the joy of stepping out
on the limb of the 21st century
underneath the lamppost
and shivering in the cold air
altogether free and set loose
with the world
as my own personal halo
the world and my inconsequential philosophies!
the world and my dreamlike body!
the world and my lyrical noise!
– the joy that comes
from an unexpected encounter…
true living
What I call true living
is found at the periphery of all modality
after a week of uninspiring tragedies
petty, yes
small unrecognizable anxieties
a tiny indulgence
like a return to a temporary home
that is true living, to say
“I am a great sufferer”
and drink the bottle
to curse the others
after a nagging narcissism
pretends to obliterate a reason
to go on breathing.
That is true living
to hold tight to the street
wayfaring, intoxication
denial
a great wide hole
alive alas
at the bottom of any common asphyxia
true living
is the edge
the final wound.