Lying face down, on the grass, under the sun.
The letters on the page i'm reading are dancing to the beat.
Profanity prayers or some shit.
Too much fucking heat.
Girls, boys, with their perfect skins and not so perfect teeth go past me and then back again.
Eyes front mister.
I'm so nonchalant.
Like that guy from that Bret Easton Ellis novel.
My feet are shuffling to the beat.
I feel electric or some shit.
I like it here, on the grass, under the sun. I can hear the fucking heat melt to the beat, as i drip myself away.
Too much fucking heat, but not nearly ever enough.

I see myself as a sail.
Angelically white, streaked with vertical mahogany.
Cheeks forever blown full.
Tanned. Beaming.

I see myself as a sprig of thyme.
Rock-huddling, lavender-blossomed, once-green.
Beaten to submission.
Never to surrender.

I see myself as a stone.
Stripped naked.
Holding down to the dry soil by sheer determination.
Or, some say, stubbornness.
I wink slyly.

I see myself as a wave.
Or better yet, every wave.
Or best of all, this wave,
playfully breaking on the shore,
just now.

i am a dark mountain goat path

incessantly maneuvering between the night sky and the naked trees

slow steps are treading on the moist soil and a forgotten piece of red cloth and rotting leaves and the notes of a small night music echo from far away

i climb up and down the slope, gathering the drops of morning dew, shaping the water, creating elusive shapes that always remind you of something else

in the middle of the night, someone is tapping my back

in the middle of the night, i turn around and my skin is torn apart

in the middle of the night, i see

i am a beacon of blinking hope

with the tip of my toe i scratch the rock and light flows out. I m trying to remember the words i was half-whispering seconds before but like all of my dreams, they have fled away from me

I get down on my knees and drink the light and taste the golden deceit

i am always a dark mountain goat path

It always begins like this.

A solitary word explodes in the dark, followed closely by a comet, or a stream.

Or nothing.

I don't know which words i love the most: those that carry with them a loud party of other words and thoughts and images or the other ones, those that can exist autonomous, aloof, alone.

Sometimes poetry is the absence of poetry.

Sometimes poetry is saying 'summer' or 'cloud' or 'a glass of ice cold water' and then secretly smiling, since noone else gets the joke.

But it's even better when someone does get it and then you and they conspire a smiling conspiracy.

Sometimes poetry is smiling for no obvious reason and not saying a single word, cause none are actually necessary.

the echo of the piano chord is filling the air
damning silence
to joy

reflections dancing in the darkness
like noone is watching
cause noone is

breath is useless and so is heartbeat
this is a new day
only feeling now
life was never what you thought it was
the purpose of being awake was never what you thought it was
you were never what you thought you were
closed eyes will serve you best
for now
floating, inhaling golden nothing, see the sound, eat it and you will be whole

take my freedom in, let it grow, blossom and carry fruit and then wither away
i've never wanted it anyway