joint / to you, sleeping your pain is hard. you always look like crossed by a thousand thoughts a thousand blades/ a thousand sailing ship dreams , blood accidents, clay; I like your dog eyes/ your pain is mine to guard, to admire, It is mine to heal, since it comes me natural as sharing a wept it comes / and I come to you / you come to me I want to make you spirit and flesh sex and water thigh free to be shown or not to be scratched or not; kiss you on the forehead and where your legs join in cave incision sea like or not inlet, everywhere; looking at your back one night and nothing else, sleep inside you being slept, dreamt, bit; my chest and what it contains that’s yours, an only with you it moist with blood in the best way/ laying/ yours are my nervous feet yours is my phallus yours are my spasms yours is my neck you are almond woman and no one fits like you exactly coincide.___________________lawyer M. boat it doesn’t sail on salt water anymore gathering rain instead; fixed on wooden turrets night blue keel, water-green higher and wooden Someone brought it here to Mauro’s shipyard were was born, sons or devastated friends, after you died, and such as the memory of you it rests under just olive trees unjust heat -you would have said it better- Put me back on the sea, -seems saying- its graceful planks seem to whisper, take those clamps away from me I am pretty, willing to cut waves be barge and refuge for naps of bathers, fisherman’s desire/ I’m not able to dream here I’m not fond of hills or birds singing but I am of sea stacks dawn beginning marine sun marine warmth___________________________dusk I like your nape looks like a tiny bridge a wooden bridge leading to the lands of your mind, you mind’s caves, things on fire- this beating I hear from stern, through stern, in stern/ does this beating belong to the one I care about most (creature)? she speaks to me being me plus Cancer sign/ and she’s all the complex metaphors and desire and black and gate and risk she’s a leaf to rain on, she consoles me ________________________August 3 in this hot weather death I walk, slowly like skin in water. it is enough to be next to a fan of yours, then isn’t enough/ cause my mind detaches from skull and its axis like a crown from the pedestal, like garlic from dirt/ with a glass per day of fecund red oblivion , -no blade sight passes through this blood- a hundred years to live carcass of thinking roars about what you were smoke in squall / here: eat earth and sea things that tasted the same for a thousand years ; things that breathe, eat on their own, suck, sip, absorb, chew, digest other things with wings, fins, leaves, roots, nails, jaws, mineral and dirt molecules/ happiness is in basil. in this hot weather suggesting death more than freeze does as skin in water still happiness is in basil leaves in your hands on my ears in fishermen shouting ____________________onirical (a dream) as I reached the crater’s mouth I came to my ogival wound completely awake I came to my sleep, to my vigil in total seclusion of thought mind wasn’t aching but had consistence of exhausted leaves in plastic or jute -temples like mad magnets- on the throat trampoline still a black molasses black wept mustard silence of things repelled, imprisoned -boiling wort unconscious- I came to anxiety that had form of a clearing with suspended bodies all over -also suspended was the bodies sight- and the clearing was a laying down temple meanwhile a stern itching, and the eternal fallen down ourselves in infinite copies of ourselves, always identical then always different, never better, deceived in a modest and immature renovation circus ending in shedding skin /the ghoulish act/ With phantasmagorical radiant ravishing new coloring we do throw ourselves in hope of a different brain and at any dusk we’re swindled. II. You poet, wearing amulets you rummage in discernment itself, looking for a reason for reincarnation, a rule or evidence; arousing and caring about anything; your eyebrows look like dolphins. It’s poet fashion and only poet fashion seeking for a system untangling impossible, -must it be sublime system- My green poet is never tired, he’s a child wearing in ash armor and I love him. The woman with him doesn’t know mournfulness, and the stars on her eyelids don’t burn her at all, and she leaves galloping with arch and arrows pointing heavens. III. As I came to the womb of earth I hit her with my member, she rejected it firstly, then embraced it, and as...
