With the pen you gave me
handwriting in the notebook calligrams Amalfi
paper you gave me when I was given ... Tues
-fil
I return to write again in this book with squid ink.
may let her live a few hours
fire accents and metallic clamor of the bells (bass) ...
smoke-odor-club-de-rosa: the stake for which ascend ...
A half-read book
handwriting in the notebook calligrams Amalfi
paper you gave me when I was given ... Tues
-fil
I return to write again in this book with squid ink.
may let her live a few hours
fire accents and metallic clamor of the bells (bass) ...
smoke-odor-club-de-rosa: the stake for which ascend ...
A half-read book
and a book half done ...
Sometimes there is nothing to say ... Nor
cranes go around every day
with their beaks and feathers
telling stories to camellias and mandarin.
write:
In this part of the blue
evaporates more slowly.
write:
I know I am well and happy (I think), with skin
moistened by the rains of spring ...
write:
Fear not, my love ...
the victim told his executioner
with open eyes flooded with tears
.
I once read that a tear to spill / Becomes the eye in a question mark ... / A tear charges forever and puts into question / all poems, sunrises slower / passionate stories we tell one day fast. / Cries and his scandal to silence the words tonight.
write:
My eyes have seen
tenderness that speaks the language of fondling,
not feel the love through touch, no ...
but by the look
confirms the reunion of our skins .
-write not to move mountains or to enter on the right foot in dictionaries and encyclopedias, nor by intellectual arrogance, curiosity existential or exit of anonymity. You are mistaken if you think that of me ... Or at this point in the reading does not know to whom I write? I'm on your left, sitting: recognize my breath (in your ear), shake me of your lashes ... I'm obsessed with calligraphy that word for days: Tues-fil ... (for days, hours, now, is, da same: we are hanging on the swing moment of our palabrasraras ) ...
write:
The cobalt blue room china
Debussy came to dinner tonight ... Spleen
in Mallorca ...
Sometimes there is nothing to say ... Nor
cranes go around every day
with their beaks and feathers
telling stories to camellias and mandarin.
write:
In this part of the blue
evaporates more slowly.
write:
I know I am well and happy (I think), with skin
moistened by the rains of spring ...
write:
Fear not, my love ...
the victim told his executioner
with open eyes flooded with tears
.
I once read that a tear to spill / Becomes the eye in a question mark ... / A tear charges forever and puts into question / all poems, sunrises slower / passionate stories we tell one day fast. / Cries and his scandal to silence the words tonight.
write:
My eyes have seen
tenderness that speaks the language of fondling,
not feel the love through touch, no ...
but by the look
confirms the reunion of our skins .
-write not to move mountains or to enter on the right foot in dictionaries and encyclopedias, nor by intellectual arrogance, curiosity existential or exit of anonymity. You are mistaken if you think that of me ... Or at this point in the reading does not know to whom I write? I'm on your left, sitting: recognize my breath (in your ear), shake me of your lashes ... I'm obsessed with calligraphy that word for days: Tues-fil ... (for days, hours, now, is, da same: we are hanging on the swing moment of our palabrasraras ) ...
write:
The cobalt blue room china
Debussy came to dinner tonight ... Spleen
in Mallorca ...
Photo: " blue pen", January 2004
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