I look over
down and up
a wake of floors.
Windows
perched
at an angle
on a dark river,
tormented by envy
for not being
opened in the sky.
A cappuccino
strip foam
ruffles a cloud
unable to lick it.
I look over
down and up
a wake of floors.
Windows
perched
at an angle
on a dark river,
tormented by envy
for not being
opened in the sky.
A cappuccino
strip foam
ruffles a cloud
unable to lick it.
Will you warm up
also my icy depth
of my unconscious plans?
Bronzing with hues
the slow walk
of my deep meditations?
We are alone,
you and me, sun,
with nothing between us
than my castles in the air.
I’m not able
to invent
complicated lines.
The Ego graft
on the pen
has an handicap
stronger than will.
Maybe I pretend
to resemble myself;
maybe simplicity
is an old family friend.
I’m a little more alone
without my dreams
and this display
without graffitoes
doesn’t reflect
my sadness.
I must invent again
a dream-play
and dip in it
to believe
to be able to fill with words
the Cahos that doesn’t need them,
the heart playing,
happy,
only with time.
But I’m only able to make a fairy tale
and look at it
growing teeny
raised on the yards
flyed over by the seagulls
transparent of adventures,
entangled in my thoughts
fallen in love with life.
You arise red
this evening
over roofs and chimneys
so big
to fill
my eyes
and hold
an old man’s
stick toll
trudjing
where my photo film
ends.
I pretend
not to be back
on my steps
and don’t switch off
the alarm clock
on my sleep
to catapult myself
in the dream
and not in the reality.
But I find myself
like a ghost.
I listen
the breathe
of the deserted houses
to the shrilling
of voices
in the time.
Elderly people
cry
at the stroke of the
cuckoo-clock.
Life
today leave me in peace;
I don’t want you to shake me,
let me swing
between my thoughts lianas,
empty-like,
for once
empty-like,
for not dying by siege.
A stormy den
canalized
the sky
wet wrath.
I caught
and drank
savouring
the storm taste.
All here
the light gush
firing
tramp sleeps.
The soul of houses
is subjected
to the filiform
half-light
bounced
by useless
motes.
I am silent
I wake up
in your sleep
and I observe you
dreaming
my sea
your sea,
between the sun clefts
filtered
through my eyelashes,
through your eyelashes,
on my corner
on you
everlasting poetry.