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A seven


Seven is

Only another number

That counts for something

Like velvet, blue or sound

Or maybe not exactly these things

Maybe other things, like people, balloons, yellows!


Written for



Itch to love
Love to itch
Itching love
Loving itch

Itch to be
Be to itch
Itching being
Being an itch

Itch to have
Having an itch
Itching a have
Have an itch

Itch to go
Go to itch
Itching a going
Going itching


Written for

I’m going through

Oh oh

I’m going through

Oh oh

I’m going through

Without maps or compasses

Oh oh

I’m going through

Overcame by my sleepiness

Oh oh

I’m going through

Feeling my vainness

Oh oh

I’m going through

Following in dreaminess

Oh oh

I’m going through

Immersed in reverie

Oh oh

I’m going through

Oh oh

I’m going through





The mirror reflects a figure –


It’s round and bold –


It’s not you but it is also you.

Figures don’t lie –

They lie.

But you can rejoin yourself at night

And find some comfort in being a




of something –


without them.

En route to the summit

En route to the summit





Green pearls roll on my hand

I focus the emptiness of the blue sky

Trembles my spine

A tear evades her eyes


Some incident in the antipodes of the world

Disturbs my meditation


I’m now everywhere

With you





Regretfully there’s nothing left

Only ruins and debris


My fate was to mirror you

My idol, my tutor

But I failed


Chaos erupted

From the flames

That sent you back to the ashes


What is the matter of an ending,

When all beginnings seem so empty?





I know

I will know

I knew


Everything was set

From past to present to future


Everything is set

Everything will be


Dare to be whole






I have a vertebra of Arabic origin

A tongue of Latin spell

A Hebraic skin

An Indian look

An Oriental gait


Read the book of my blood in all languages

And send my soul to space


Sacred is my secret name written in the stars






Touch my hand

Give me a look of tenderness

Smile with me

Be my voice

Craft the void of my sorrow with letters made of gold



Voices from the past



The whirling


Running after ghosts

Step and step

To the top

A curse on the skin

Feathers in the air

Sun never seen


Sleeping in the night bus

From Piccadilly to Venice

Without love

Without mercy


God save the Queen

I am no mean man




Green savoir


Apples for dessert

Lettuce as main

And to begin and tame

Strawberries for the nerd


I was pursuing an ideal

Saving lambs from demons

But had to surrender

And stop being tender


It is a fatal deal

We are settled to be phantoms






She didn’t see his eyes

Flashing hallucinations

She was only walking through

Hiding the pink lingerie


She didn’t hear his cries

Sparkling adulations

She was only walking through

Above all his misery






Being sent away

By the melody

Finding a way

Through agony


It’s a matter for couples

It’s a question of pairing

The body doubles

In the ether of caring




Peace in the end


You learned the language of birds

While flying in the city

You became acquainted with cats and rats

Alone in the city


You met a fairy

Who kissed you good night


Everything made sense

In the debris of the city

No essence









Laughing smile

I always take a look



taking a break

from suppositions


observing real



spelling with caution



agglutinating with patience

little gestures


the big picture is



past is tremulous,

while facing the sneering


of your thinking


why is your smile so beautiful?


did I tell you about life’s

volatile condition?


mocking at me?


forget it


take a break from suggestions

and breathe truth

as it is






In response to a prompt regarding “travel” at dVerse —


The abscess slowly swells

Through the landscape
A sheep returns

Scalps are furnished with hats
That hide the hideous pointless rupture
Of a self

The sheep continues, and continues

Hats, hiding

My self ignominiously perceives the corrupted nature of all
And follows behind

It started sending sobs


I see this woman

I see this woman

She’s talking edible words

Like “strategy” and “voyage”

And I sip from my bottle

While she suggests paying me a visit

Yes, she’s nice and caring

Extravagant, perhaps

But nice and caring

And caring

And caring

And I sip from my bottle

Out of strategy and voyage