And down in the silence, rising on the fear in courage, an image troubles the heart.
Whatever imaginary world the future late present of day is, I always
will think of a friend and of a flower.
Drunk and bleeding heart, between beauty and dream, when the enemy is whatever the lightning and starlight free, all the blood from light is our cause.
This oblivion, that enigma, this ruined work, and in the manifold longing for modernity: certain gods of beauty.
The infinite and icy harvests.
What is death? We face mysteries of darkness.
Written in a dead rage, imagination has to cry.
Like obligations, tears and tears, eternity and signs.
What of the source or of the flame behind the young?
Cave without reality. Become before another time, empty of work, trapped in youth, when the years end like friendship.
Heart, your happiness is volcanoes.
Moon: grenade of being, silence.
I thinks the mirror.
Love and song: frontiers.
What is irridescent in fruit? The pleasure of the orchard?
Winter? The energy of the summer? The light from the sun’s
Bread for the dead.
Between the strange, restive sea and life, only this feast, only the sorrow of desire.
All stars are gigantic. With luck, I can fade into the enormous heaven.
The broken body of human love lay in bed, but strength is in its voice. The murderer is powerless. Speech promises beauty.
Fresh fruit and pig legs,
while three weeks waiting
for books about Mussolini
in the Vatican.
lists of verbs, dreaming
of Rome, that hated
Roman city, like the famous
painter who only answers to Master.
“Too late to move to a farm.”
How differently time
passes with a window open.
the whole world in sweatpants
or at least jeans.
The dark been here before, and if
you see it arriving
again, during siesta say:
go into an opium trench
like the ancients, get a neck tattoo
of heaven under a knife, eat
everything, and burn all the books
so the smoke hides
where you’re at, what you want.
islands as thrones,
queen and kingdom,
and the gardens
of black stone weights
the size of heads.
To measure faith,
the blood or soul
comes apart like soil
in some tilled fields.
The hidden parts of
the eyes stay young.
In the landscape of
Love there is life
Drawn as a circle and
Over the mountain
The shape of conspiracy
Is two green shapes
Of two animals
Lending their ash
To the sky’s final light
To the true end of night