Dead cat that smiled at dinner
quietly imagines spaces,

soft, uncertain.

Slow whimpering along the extinct highway,
with painless frost in sleep.

Hunger has the silent pretence of a metronome,
with quantum lips ticking.

Move inside the rotten rose-flesh
with dead letters written at sunset.


Dear Mr. K,
here are similes for you.

Sweet as the worm for your breakfast
and daggers for your sleep;

the moon burns in your closet
and mermaids cloud your nostrils.

You loved her naked rhythm
and her luminous suffering,

you hid inside the mythology
and wrote morse codes for the rain,

beneath the dust of her breasts,
you trembled with a song.

You left the frost burning in her sleep,
and the cat dying,
and the rhythm suffering,
and the mermaids crying,
and the stereo playing,
the wedding dress burning,
and the breakfast getting cold at 42nd Street.

But you only cared for the rain, didn’t you,
when the summer child brought you roses
and promises,
that she will take you to her house on the moon?

Have you always been this way,
silent, crazy and perfect?


Dream, woman dream
of salt carcasses,
and a wild concert of light.

Moments turn into the blush of a painter;
resilience anonymous.

Nuclear beauty in Verona’s limbs,
what is the colour of blindness?
You ask.

Tired polyphony of autumnal nightfall,
the moon tastes like the body of your dead lovers.

Sea-slept, forgotten
you only kept her caged in blue circles of light.


Smoke, from tender eyelids at dawn.

I will write an epic for you
as we match steps on the stand.

I have heard the hunger grow
inside the blush of the painter,
inside the rose-flesh dream,
inside the blue circles of light,
when the waves wash us ashore,

without memory or trace.

I have seen fear
in your eyes
when lovers smell of sunset and leaves.

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