I like it this way.
I fancy it wet and gray; fantasizing all those
passing planes in dimmed light, on the late nights,
and the elderly’s sincere novella.
I saw the blurry greens, the painted ponds
on a steamy ride, and I asked
the eternal question:
Did you ever know how deep it hurts
when you murmur those words;
while collapsing my world?
I’ve learnt not to rive, not to sway;
I know how to digest and not to
wind up in any way.
Let’s leave them all behind and climb up
to the rooftop; hands locked, eyes wide shut,
seeking then saluting the
Let’s swallow the poison and spoil ourselves
in silence, in this ‘very’ moment
cause happiness is ‘now’,
Where are the love affairs and the eternal gazes
at the bus stops, way under the foggy
shelters covered with nicotine patches?
Under the morning breeze when ‘to love’ is
far from a random habit, I crave the hot sand
rescuing the sealed kisses; treasuring the lost letters.
The final destination is a flawless spot filled
with leaves of grass, with singing birds and I,
I’ll linger there in silence, holding tight to my dignity.
– Describe life.
– It’s short.
(Photo by Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison)
Falling and shining
like a raindrop on
Daring and dancing,
while covered in
red; in cruel
Between the sky and
a screwed up head,
I freeze; will
Your silence is my life’s pleasure.
(Photo: “Sick Of Goodbyes” by Robert Frank)
One, two, three…
Converting my belief
to my inner self, while
updating my black(est) list.
Painting a faceless “you”
then erasing it with a
“who bloody cares” attitude.
Capturing the non-existent
gray sky and showing it off
to the proud shining sun.
Life in your eyes is different than in mine.
(Photo: Lonely Metropolitan by Herbert Bayer – 1932)
I am mysterious.
You – too – are mysterious.
We – all – are mysterious.
They are monsters –
I wish them…
Oh, never mind!
Once upon a time,
when I was a little girl,
I made a scrapbook out of
my father’s vintage
(Life Magazine Cover – 1937)
go (not) so right
the clock reads the
time six hours behind,
gray mustache grows long
above the old lady’s reddish
lips, and the crown is resting
on the idiot’s no-brain; he talks about
his inner scars while the single-legged
wild pigeon is feeding the tobacco
ends – hundreds of them on the
cold concrete – to her little
ones. Yes, that’s when
things start to fall
into the (not)