Archive for October, 2013

Beat with me

Beat with me


Frantic snail of the libidinous watermelon

Whirling crystal of the blonde’s breast

Hanging colt of the bearded Protestant

Ford of my dreams…


I’m calling the soul of the Spaniard–Apalachee

– Profound –

sweating in metallurgies

whose kids play of Barbies and Kens


I’m calling

the generation that hides vibrators from their kids

and represses MASTURBATIOOON


I’m calling the stupor of Napalm

Heir of the ancient Coca – and I’m calling “COLA”, its cousin


I’m calling you

You are needed on the front

“where the Gospel has not yet reached”


Come on, my friend

Beat mit me





The craftsman chisels the figure out from the marble’s veins

She’s immobilized

Facing carnal torments he touches the frigid stone and feels a torpor

Flushing, the pupil holds firmly a pencil from which a Venus has been drawn


No-bodies of marble hold the scene in white empty eyes

The arcade keeps the surfaces of the tempers protected from irascible thunders


Me, nobody too, asks for statues with, or without, rotten teeth and (in)visible libido

Like these fleshed corpses that keep persisting


Jocosely a friendship is lost

In the frugal webs of marbled spiders – without any art


(L)Only selves watch the news and remnants of Leonardo keep flying Icarus away. Away



White bread and its intestines



when you slave till complete stupor

and you just feel strapped and hopeless


stupid conveying stupidity

without any new idea

or hidden miracle to save you from mediocrity


you look back and try to sum up achievements

saying “you did it” “you are someone”


but you’re down and feel innocuous

inoffensive, banal, chimerical


and you render the page

and your somatic miserable body

drinks water

to cheer up the code of a chrysalis

reclaiming the banning of slaughtering

chanting abracadabra

fooling the king of copulation

ejaculating bananas from the tropical balcony

into waving nuns’ vaginas


and you continue

because a rainbowing aftermath of magical mushrooms will not save the day

from conjured suicidal ideas


looming, angelical teenagers fill the tormented hours of your bread

and the clock is running

and you’re late, and you’re outdated


searching for comforting sadness

and its intestines