
I SAY NO
28 Feb 2022 3 Comments
in MY LIFE AS A WOMAN Tags: girls, glass, Honey, Photo studio, WOMEN

MY TREE HANDS
23 Jan 2022 1 Comment
in MY LIFE AS A WOMAN Tags: candlesticks, courage, fragile, glass, hands, lips, mouth, phoneixes

Perhaps, in all these years, people weren't that cruel and I didn't need to swallow all that ash of dull smiles between the lips. Maybe I didn't notice and left on the street stumps of missing hugs, like mournful candlesticks turned on to my loneliness. For this I am satisfied to warm myself with crumbled phoenixes; and I've spent bland days, with his mouth too full of me to talk about love. It would have been nice to lean on each other, like hands on glass, but I didn't have the courage to undress, because being transparent is fragile, and it's easy to break.
BARD DANCE
17 Dec 2021 1 Comment
in MY LIFE AS A WOMAN Tags: Aperitifs, contracts, glass, MORNING, skin
I've never felt sorry for people who decide to be alone. I do not find it an example of cowardice, not as much as I do not see it in those who would instead get together with anyone in order not to deal with loneliness. I have always been of the idea that being alone is beautiful, it is liberating. As I return home, in my beautiful solitude and silence after yet another chaotic day, I take off my shoes I untie my hair I sit on the sofa and stare at a point in the dark entrance in front of me. It is perhaps the truest moment that I live in contact with who I am. Me and my thoughts, and my reflections on what I did, on the contracts concluded, on the clients I met, on the mistakes I made. I should have been more rigid with the people I met this morning, I should have been more resolute in addressing that issue in the afternoon. I stay on the sofa with my legs on the table in the center, and the only sensation I have is of the skin in contact with the glass. Beautiful loneliness, as you think about how many are around right now having conversations with someone they don't even listen to the words of. After all, I'm almost happy. My tired legs and I, thank you for having decided to return, without further stops for aperitifs, inaugurations or dinners. Without effort, naturally back to live in the moment, of this moment.
BORN IN THE STONE
26 Nov 2021 Leave a comment
in FEELINGS Tags: AIR, beauty, bodies, CLOAK, dust, EVIL, glass, green, majestic, skin, TRANSPARENCY, WAVE

So ready to disappear I was so featherweight and apologize to the skin with every dust of air for undue occupation, so impressed by the transparency I was to make glass tersissimo to dazzling mornings and smell of wave between propped bodies. So strictly useless the soul my to keep it green next to it in the long course of the so-called dating without any unhinging of speech. "Then? Then?" Then I slipped out in hard peel world skin, I make a silence on evil, a cloak of insolent beauty terrestrial. I cannot command this flow it is a great work of clear yield with a majestic current, I am a word to the light I was born.
BLACK FLOWER
07 Nov 2021 Leave a comment
in SOMETHING STRANGE Tags: bed, BLACK, cup, drinks, glass, Hole, nightmare, Sock, vegetables

my bed has a hole in it my sock has holes in it my heart is pierced my sweater has holes in it my glass has a hole in it my shoe has holes in it my mind is whole, my empty cup, my plate of green vegetables. Tonight a nightmare of drinks and chic clothes. Black, red, gold and blue, sparkling, fabulous. I didn't open my eyes because there was something else in my past. I didn't want to wear clothes for anyone. I want to stay in leggings and a T-shirt. I want to stay out of the world of elegant zombies.
FROZEN STAR
07 Jul 2021 Leave a comment
in FEELINGS Tags: feathers, fingers, fingertips, Frozen, glass, hand, Stars

Tears of sleep on the edge of your dissolved head.
Liquid glass prisoner of the sins of wax.
Immobile and insane.
Paralyzed by negative outcomes.
Interior.
Memories of homes lived in.
Dusty fingers.
Fingers of disappointed child.
Your kingdom smells like summer jasmine paradise.
Your kingdom is the childhood past.
Postcards and postage stamps detached.
You are the master of lost words.
The pocellana of each of your inner places has the wounds of angels.
The skies are the result of a farewell to the horizons. Interior. Returns.
Crumbled taxes.
Magical soups.
The dead zone of the darkened mind.
Alcoholic dementia.
Forget the years.
The schools.
Mental calculations.
You have filtered out every music of your pain.
Violins sing under your bed.
The removed dust settles again.
The fingertips leave fingerprints.
Loose and redone glasses.
Stained glass windows and unlit prayers.
If you wait for the fire, you become ashes.