Blood to blood all roads travel
dripping sea
Memory is proof and resonance of everything.
From Syria and Iraq...
Strangers to the sense of repetition, strangers to the fate that is ours..
Apathy is the only greatness!
Between the thumb and index finger, the landslide of History flashes.
Listen, listen to the Bora that tightens the temples. The dead are thresholds, they are swaddling clothes, the pale leaves are bathed in the twilight, the blood hides a thousand roads and none, misery is a boat on dry land and of course compassion is not an umbrella. Inside, inside!
Listen, listen, Music covered in roses. It is Utopia that whistles, Uncertainty is a note, it is a tool that locks the windows and walls in Hope, begin, begin to be silent above pride, without language, Injustice is born, Algebra the dark horizon, lips painted with swords in the dark mirrors, Justice indeed, Authority on the gallows.
Dawn on the lips of a foreign land
Listen, listen to music. A storm untrodden in the Land of Men. Let the tide rise, let the light sleep in the undergrowth that has just swallowed it. Be quiet, be quiet. Time a beggar biding his time, Earth and sky under the weight of the candles, violence as a psychometric tool, facing a sun a beggar's shelter and reason a kiosk to buy the darkness Inside inside.
Violence and Mercy, the glittering games of the markets.
In psychiatric hospitals, they urinate on banners.
in morgues they embalm sons
future paths for the economy
MOURNING in LADOKOLA
Where are you going, my dear, with the sunscreen?
Listen, listen to the Bora that always starts again. It is no longer an image, it is smoke, it is not speech, it is a whirlwind and dismemberment, the light for a cigarette butt, the sound of a bell that slithers like a scorpion and opens like a fan, it is no longer an image, no, it is fire and voracious flames, snakes and old graves with the DOUBLE apron of the butcher, Paranoia with Spread Skies.
Nails that suckled feathers from old cabinets and coins
It is no longer an image, no, this dayless water is not the sea, foam is the fate of Man, it is not the sea, it is silence and chatter, hot blood and wonder, it is a marble mob of oblivion that vomits up the sea, it is a breath from within the closet, from within the gaze that drags the landslides
The milk that grabs like a dry branch, the mother of the Cliffs, Greed
Listen, listen, music, a storm untrodden in a patent leather sky. Perched here on the bed of the Whore in the dark corner of Peace, beneath the ineffable crack of new cracks, fragmented earth, memory and chimera and petrified dawn, it is no longer an image, no, with a quiet cry the blood flutters, a sky of gallows in the gaze of a collapsing train, foliage of a new world like no night dreamed of, a new world with hooves illuminated by skylights, of old chests and keys with splashed hands and eyes eaten, like no night in the images and at sea.
With a soft cry, the blood flutters.
The horizon has split in two
On the other hand, the wind rustling experience has been defeated by words.
With the children burned in my backyard and their braids like sparrows on the beach
No one can be that cowardly.
The forgetfulness that dwells in the fingers is an ambush
Politics as a playing card castrates and is castrated
forge and forge
Listen, listen to the storm that tightens the temples.
Defeat lies on the ridges
Hear the storm from the flesh of winners and losers
and in the temples the dark vestibule
If you are expelled from the language, you may also gain its material.
It takes time to stop believing in anything.
Which certainty
Look, the dawn wave washes up corpses
Look at the starry sky, it's raining mice.
