There are moments when it’s crowded and you can’t breathe.

There are moments when it’s crowded and you can’t breathe.

Or when it’s crowded and you want to get out and move the hell away.

But there are also moments when it’s all crowded in your head.

When you wish you could shout it.

When you wish you could say it but it won’t let you.

When the best choice is to run away and drown it in a river.

Bury it somewhere deep and hope it’s shut for good.

We stare like strangers through each other into the wall

They say it gets easier while growing older. They say it’s easier to pass it unnoticed, to let it slip through your fingers.

They say you just fall asleep when you feel the need to sleep, that you shouldn’t fear the moments when it’s dark or broad day-light.

They say you wouldn’t feel the need to melt away with this almost-winter mid-light and air. And they have no clue.

It was the night I thought I had been driving like crazy until morning

And in the morning I drove ’till night. When actually I was only confusing these two: both mornings and nights were driving me crazy. Mornings looked troubled and I assumed it was a matter of divination which would make everything easier. But there were no auguries, no omen.

Not even flowers grew up there, along the side-walks, across oceans and beyond such doubts. Nights, on the other hand, seemed sketched by hands without skills. By hands used to build up great fires, to spread light. But there was no light either, no other but the artificial ones hanging in front of me, on the roads.

The one which discovered the flies in the darkness, exposed them and detached their wings. No divinations and no fire-makings. I wasn’t even driving. Not even day and night. Not even then or them.

It will never turn human.

I wish I could still detach the marrow from the fish bone at the end of the day and let the real creature float aimlessly as if in a Kusturica movie. Let it hit the ground, the sand, the rock, the tail, the foot and the neck. Let it choke in its perceptions.

Distorted, of course, searching in a reluctant place for what the organism cannot hold as proof. Feed it with foolish myths of how it should dream and recall, then of how easy it would be to distinguish between all the people and find the same one. If only I could myself hold ground of my beliefs, the myths I’m telling and the prophecies I launch. The poor fish.

It will get stuck in this tardis the moment it will figure out: it will never be born from the mud of primordial, savage gardens. It will never turn human. And it will never encounter the sole ring that held its pieces together and its chain unbroken – the bone that kept its spine straight, away from circling into a skinless Ouroboros.

There are feelings carving the insight of all the things I see

I make no sense, there is nothing to hold sacred or to let go. And you know it’s funny, since I have been longing for so long for a reason to give everything a soul to pursue and believe in. But it seems that the universe has been waiting for its own reasons to give in. To throw me into this deep void of untitled madness which I will never figure out alone.

Carving deeper to what is left, to songs about cuddling ballerinas fulfilling destinies of those who hate art, I realize that I will never be able to write again. These passages, words, phrases remain floating in vain. Once in a blue moon I will read them again and constantly say to myself don’t look back, don’t look back, no, not now, maybe later…. Ironic enough though, there is always a detail to remind me. And I’m aching, crying for the times when it was perfect and artistic, with cloudy days that seemed warm and cozy, never cool and dreadfully hostile. Now they are the ones pointing fingers.

I scream I surrender but they would never listen. Chairs breathe through the peaches that slipped from the table and remained on the same old chairs. Some peaches are on the ground, intoxicating the floor with redemption and lost gestures. Well they were funny once, tender, withdrawing every drop of skepticism. They are now poison flooded with regret, the type of regret one will never know until helplessly trying to deny it in order to keep sane and lucid.

There’s a blue moon outside and so I read these again and the peaches rot suddenly, turning to ashes of shadows from the early past. I hate you, beauty of form, Art, I hate you forever and you will never foster me again. But I will look for you. And you won’t be there. In the end, it doesn’t even matter, does it?

I am now disconnected.

High without hopes, as loud without sounds or highlighted without paint. Either way it doesn’t make any sense and fighting it only feels like an unmade bed, a broken heel or a piece of glass in the foot. Like colours that don’t match and never will and birds that sing endless choirs of misspelled words.

And the misgivings, the disillusions, the desecrations, the disabilities, disaffections, disappearances and disappointments. The disarmament that can only be discerned throughout disbeliefs and disconsolation. I am now disconnected.

The Rite of Spring

Haikus are writing themselves, hang on trees and slide on the back of dragonflies, endangering themselves. Words turn promiscuous as the spring dawn moves forward and unveils their bodies almost completely. Without any resentment and an eclipsed shame they dance in the scalded milk like air, breathing slowly through vocals and puns.

At noon they occasionally hide beneath the leafs of plants growing in the dungeons of shores, just to rest for a while. At three o’clock they’re back, lingering around with the same promiscuity, leaving a ghost aftertaste.

Some would think specters walk around foolishly, in heavy daylight, compromising the lights they’re made of, when in fact such poltergeists are the bits of haikus striking in the heat, the haikus which were given too much credit.

They fall apart like illnesses, at the sunset, these worries-provoking creatures now looking like nothing but broken light bulbs with dim-lights covering their fragile bodies and vanish at midnight, returning to the humble who operated himself, who cut his throat to let the words out and create the haiku he was unable to write.

Dark-blue ink tiptoed on the wooden floor.

The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place

Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from.

Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep.

The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

Crows fly in circles above a great whole.

Crows fly in circles above a great whole. Wolves circle it as well and grow broken branches from the paw prints they left in the thin sand. Savage bushes and leafless trees grow on top of each other to form a fortress that holds secluded only ravens and crows and wolves.

Winds tends to scatter the birds but then brings them back together and symphonically howls through the rotten smell. Bats clap under the sun and splash in particles that would soon stop upon the skin and the candles. To blow off the candles and hold them in dream catchers.

Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis

If these were my hands and ink flooded them suddenly, if my feet were embraced by points and lines turning me into stones, would a bird come an take each pebble in its beak, then safely put it on a sea shore and cover it with sand? Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis, about such anthropomorphism of delusional creatures, both the man and the bird.

Neither can I guarantee about a huge giraffe starting to eat the tree in which a dwarf found shelter, clutching each leaf with its teeth until leaving the tree leafless, with a dwarf and his little hat sleeping vertically, dreaming of the clouds barely flying with 5 meters above his head.

The giraffe would eat the bird with the pebbles and I would kill the dwarf while climbing up to the clouds so as to escape the great flood of ink.