saltimbaco

I cannot stay still
my eyeballs bounce between red and violet
as I glide back and forward on this arc
my circus in the clouds
explodes in multicolored glass drops.
7 ways to deceive a thought,
twisted in this garden of desires.
I cut my fingers once
and poppies cover your bewildered lips
I cut my fingers twice
and tropics move to the north pole
I cut my eyelids
and Moses drowns in my saliva
he splits my tongue,
waves burn my thighs
for fire could reach me not.
moist psalms embalmed in this voodoo prayer,
somewhere, on a narrow shore,
between the nexus and the plexus,
I pierce your silhouette,
a tiny shadow carved on my palms.
I cannot stay still
I am a sky acrobat,
I dance on 7 strings,
no ground could swallow me,
my dreams weaved this web of air beneath me.
my mother is an axiom
my father is an answer,
still I am not a question,
but a fact.
we are impossible,
my breath would make you choke,
so let me dance on my 7 strings alley,
I shall sing you my story,
my lovers name?
that I cannot remember,
a hidden face I have inside my womb,
it will take me ten more beginnings of ourselves
to recall you,
ten more endings
to resemble you.
I cannot stay still,
this vertigo dresses my skin,
so naked I cannot be.
the sun spills its rays over my head,
a remaining of the moon I am,
yesterday is my cradle...
watch where you shine,
that is my shadow you're dissolving
watch where you step,
those are my dreams you're wandering on.
I cannot stay still.
I dance through this valley of your egos
and 7 strings keep me suspended.

colin

it was raining sand that night
wet and liquefied
its vapors crept in my lungs
cunning thing a grain of sand can be
its seed planted itself
and grew blossoming stones on the branches of my throat.

you said "I feel like crying"
but you were just willing to cry
such strange phobias a man can invent
to keep his instinct of self-preservation satiated.
a gazelle would be startled
by the dreadful mimicry of your will.
so it was raining fake tears,
expanded clouds were mocking your sterile lacrimal gland,
such a waste of gestures
your cold hands and your breath were.
you clocked off,
such a pretty good-bye you fetched for me,
or so you thought,
as you turned off the lights
clouds could no longer harm you,
"the employee of the month I am'',
you must have said to yourself,
another can of beer,
another little chat,
that simple the dissection of a special someone is.

it was raining that night
the waterlily on my left lung
was growing bigger and bigger
its white petals turned into horns
like twisted origami
pushing against my chest.

I said "I wish you well"
joyful odes and libations
rain was singing for my milky flower,
so it kept on spreading
its claws tore my tissues,
painting itself on the canvas of my muscles.
stroke after stroke,
like a lazy pagan god
it resembled you more and more.
deliriously the notes of the orchestra
blew the spheric sounds inside me
turning them into a silent vertigo.

it was raining mute words that night
a fake hero with a 7 days passing-ticket
had just finished his 5 o'clock tea on the battlefield,
he took his para solar and left.
as my Colin was going west to climb the Berlin wall,
the waterlily on my lung was laughing...

33&2

how come the snow on a grave doesn't melt?
the memory of bones keeps intact
all the violence,
all the purple dreams
and all the curtains of shadows
that have ever covered ones body.
hands never waved that last goodbye,
no promises were made
before you left.
a tiny blood spot on a white pillow was your last signature
before your eye-lashes turned stiff
and your dreams cold and unworthy.
your face, that arrogant nazi face,
vitrified,
spread shades of guilt on mine.
your body, that hypocrite hippie body dressed in dust and venom
lied there, on the dinning table
asking for tears and forgiveness.
first course, my wife
second course, that bitch my mother is
third course, my daughter.
was I a good dessert, daddy?
was the bitter flavor of my skin worthy of such an imperial feast?
you said you would have eaten earth for me, daddy,
but now the earth has swallowed you
and the ghost of a coarse ikebana watches your sleep.
saints were watching you
as if you were some sort of cheap tv show
so petty and ridiculous
but still with a 33.7 rating point.
green fields and endless blossom cherry trees were promised to you
but, daddy, we both knew that the only
never ending blossom was that of the rotten wood of your coffin.
the only genuine things you had
were a round golden chain on your finger
and a bundle of pink flesh.
but, daddy, the golden chain became a spoon
which priests use to eat their moist boiled eggs
and
that pink flesh turned violet.
and now you're a joke,
an invented name on a cross
and
an uninvited chromosome in a girls muscles.
you said that white doves would bring me home,
but, daddy, you forgot to tell me where my hut was,
on which shore the first brick was put,
and now
I sit on the edge of this cold ocean
and
I grow seashells right from my skin,
'cause you should know better than anyone
what a great fertilizer a wounded soul is.
you said that flowers would spread on my skin
and
that roses would pour out every time I would swear
but, daddy, thorns are growing from myself now,
'cause you never bothered to tell me
that ones sins become yours
once you touch him.
it felt like craving for your redemption, daddy,
when I kissed him.
it felt so incestuous
while I fucked him, daddy.
yes, don't be so surprised.
I fuck. I fuck.
just like you did.
and now
my womb is empty
because his dick is hollowing someone else
just like you, daddy,
just like your dreams hollowed my mother's.
his name is...
but you already know his name,
don't you daddy?
'cause you were there, on the corner
watching us,
watching me.
smiling while I became you.
why do I feel like I am 33 already, daddy?
I am only 22.
and
there are 11 more years for me to crawl...

puppy

raw meat growing greedily between bleeding lips
makes her swallow her inflamed tongue
and choke.
her eyelashes paint the air in shades of crimson.
she moans while she's being pushed down.
her stomach becomes one with the rotten floor.
perhaps a nail pierced her left thigh.
pieces of her are spread all over the furniture.
bones frame bits of flash.
a museum of pleasure into a room of torture
needs a first daughter to be built inside its dead walls.
an ancestral need that is.
the collapse into dirty sheets makes her turn into a wounded dog.
Jesus leaves his perfect spot on the wall and comes to me.
he looks a bit drowsy, a bit bored.
perhaps a bit stupid. lights a cigar and nods his head.
''c'mon, there's nothing here.''
we leave the room.
we walk the alley. the smell of lilac makes our silence smile,
but me and Jesus,
we both know there was a girl in that bed.
now you leave your perfect spot from the wall and come to me.
you look a bit drowsy, a bit bored.
perhaps a bit stupid. you light a cigar and nod your head.
your psalms pour out of your mouth.
they lead me far away.
the white field of guilt where my soul lies drowns in black milk
and poisoned ambrosia.
you sing me a lullaby.
I wake up with your marks on my palms.
your last kiss on my forehead was the one of Judas.
the moon throws shades of bitter red over my room.
I see her right next to me. She sits and watches the tall buildings with me.
out there, between bricks and steel, out there are people.
thousand of Jesus and Judas exchanging parts every day.
out there, a few blocks away, there is your breath preaching for yourself.
she is dressed in cinder and wax.
pale and rinsed.
but I can still see the collar of the four-legged hybrid she became.
''How could you let him do this?''
she doesn't want to touch me.
packs her skin and goes into the darkest corner of the room.
I can't see her anymore, but I hear the sound of her tongue licking her wounds.
the sound of her saliva.
''I thought...
he was going to be nice to us.''

the gallerist

such collapse into soul electricity
makes me perspire
the atoms of an orgasm
do decompose into smaller ones
each and every one of them
is an exhibit
of this large museum of my muscles
my pores frame them
the visitors are intrigued
but the grimace on their faces shows disgust.
the gallerist won't contact the artist again.
ever.
not under any possible circumstances.
such art made out of pure instinct and selfisnesh
is beyond post-modernism.

poor lil' butcher

I'll kill you
I'll cut your throat
and then
I'll bathe in your blood
and sing gospels
just because I know you're such a devoted agnostic.
I'll kill you
and then become a necrophiliac
just because I know you're so sensitive when it comes to such "complex" things.
I'll kill you
because I'm so fucking special
and I have the power to surprise you.

fading sigh

I lie on this desert
right next to the ocean
roots are growing from my soles
into the water
I spread like an old mangrove
no tsunami could crush me down.
the view on my porch is peerless
I sit on it
and look at myself mixing up with the ocean.
slide,
slide into my chamber of torture
I have my nails sharp
and my tongue dressed in venom
we could develop a particular case
of the stocklom syndrome.
we could exchange parts.
let's take this silence
and throw it on the others lips and thoughts.
break me into pieces
sail the ocean for a while and fight the sea dragons
and than come back
into this panoramic post-card I am,
remove the dust and the scratches
and
renew my skin.
I'll grow basil,
oregano,
tarragon
and marijuana
right on the sand in front of my house.
let their scent lead us
to the soul kitchen
where we'll end up
decomposing into each others flavors
so slide,
slide into my chamber of tortures
where no one else
has ever entered.

we share the same skin but not the same thoughts

''My name is Mariane'', she said. ''I am 15 years old. My skin is dirty. I have muddy fingerprints all over my body. I've swallowed a desert, so I'm now perfectly drained. My tongue licks my soul in vain. I'm spineless. My bones are moist and soft. I'm a jellyfish. Do you remember me?''
I do.