Semi-scientific, intermediate approach, a near death gunshot fired at the distance of my ears, part of a one-time serious illness that got covered by crumbs around the carcasses of pigeons and a holistic dance between barrels in the harbour of Caracas. Do You want to kill me, she asked. Her eyes big with Disneyan fear, a joke that would resound in a sleeping room, pasted by heroes whose sweet smiles I could not match. I kind home. But not for long. I breathe home. But not at here. Two corpses roll down the stairs. The love fight had begun.
My little life, a soldier of desire patted me on the shoulder. I low attic. Gum gone soon. Tiles and broken shoulders marked a tilted head, thoughts of vengeance dripped from the lips. I war zone. Suspirious suspicion followed a slow intake of warm air. Breeze and the fresh scent of washing powdered pullovers. Bathroom dolls in a bucket full of lard. I got mine last Saturday, didn’t even have to pay for it. How long will she stay there at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me.
A slow fill for dreams. Drawn into a tent, under a masqueraded moonless night. I supply you. A shirt tight to fit, waves of possession, while a car ride through the desert clouds my life. Sand in measures. No for the next fill. The woman in the train to Rabat yawned. I thought of camels. There was no limit to it. We looked at her in awe. Her mouth was so big it could take three pipi’s of rines. Her hair was shorter then our experience. Cover me with patience. Get in later.
Fur coats, a monkey in the arrival hall of Linate. She loosened herself from the wall. The embrace was unifying breath. The next window was a little park with beheaded plastic children. We smoked a revolution. A beard from Yugo-Slavia. Walnuts in pocket rooms, houses, whilst a fig tree bend to ashes. No sleep. I tug you. No sleep. No more brain patterns in seismic waves. Cool coffee. Only if you want it. You look the same as you. One day in front of smashed shop windows. Big bald Bulgarians. She looked like one of those tarot card women. The image is hurts.
Donkey cart ride on your name is Toto, disappear over the hills. Dry earth, carved feet. Then, fifty years later you crown. I hit it. A rectangular thought leans over a brook. Daffodils define my thought. I rest my case with a Turkish butcher. Long legged memories. You were so beautiful. A yellow pear of satanic origin appears in the hand of Hölderlin. I hide honey. Over the bridge into the dusted land we go. We throw our shoes in the rivelet. Rush’o’lay. Dwindle and escape. This little car belongs to you.
Sicily was never thought of. Oranges minded. A loud market day, wacky, humid, splits and eyelashes: petrol gaze, petrol skin. Olives in an open hand. Spit on the floor. Hang your jacket next to mine. We look warm together, even if you evaporate just at the other side of the mountain pass. A bar on the highest point, lost in a shortsighted day. The valley girls pick flowers. A smile of alabaster. Breezes. Vapors. Judge me, as long as you can. I free ill. Another market, another climate. We have never been here, even if we wanted so loud. Kill. I smile.