No matter who these words were for 
A ghost you hate, a soul you adore
Take courage
Turn the page 
Disregard the eyes for whom it was written
And read out loud a poem to your kitten 

Fate is indeed a thread by the Parcae. 
This sparks no torment: a thread, is a kitten’s toy  
Prime Engined by curious paws’ choice,  
Undefeatable prey to play with.
To a kitten, obscurity remains a myth 
The yarn is found, wherever hidden, and
Shortened, 
With a billion ribbon-like loops:
Time, the price of deeper joys and truths

Kittens dance and revel, in the buzzing sawdust 
Of elder carved stars they dry their hair 
On dreamed rooftops every twilight
An intimate tête-à-tête with sunsets
Takes place; all they loudly gossip 
‘Bout the dinner they’ll go and steal 
When the gambrel’s reborn as sky
Its passing fervour a drying lemon 
– In the sky that cautiously dims
On fishbones crassly cleaned by ravenous rings
A cat observes as sky pilgrim unmoved by the ground 
Their dreams are long, their loves profound
And for no other reason poetry is written
Than to explain the awe in the heart of a kitten 

When they believe they’re real 

All my friends are props

Fake driftwood in hip shops

Sinking to a shoreline 

To a bright dissociation online

Faceless toys in wasted stretches

Dancing drunk along the edges 

Of plastic roofs, and shouts 

Pristine angry agony in clear routes

Wreckage of forgotten pearls

Stabbed open to the world 

Muted locks of intense silk

A reptile’s reaction to milk 

Fascination and disgust

Sudden loss of fickle trust

The twin stars’ twinkle encodes

Hidden paths to aborted moons 

And the gay shadow of Earth 

Mystery for lonely diggers of dunes 

Muddy homestretch forever fading

Losing air to duty for choked hope

Eyes closed with worlds split 

Spilling my thoughts like morning coffee 

Over a nameless body 

Probed by the mirror

As to why yesterday’s soul was clearer 

Metal dances as it’s shredded 

Left torn and lightheaded 

Two ways to a home 

A hut of seafoam 

Its eternal pyre 

The gotra of a Iyer 

Golden threads on my wheel

Hair woven into shield

Oh eyes don’t look 

Truth’s never been in a book

In a mind, in a box 

Truth’s real only when hear no locks

Pervading spaces, escaping dams 

Dizzying nights of splinters 

Hard-fought winters spent indoors

Rural songs of dark cancers 

Suicidal horses, lifeless dancers  

Anomalies in the flow of tar

The end of every tsar

Liquiform destiny of a parr

Querulous introduction to sunsets

Skull sunk in an armet

And prayers.

Strong shells are not made
From perception or planning,
But from broken ones

Last night I was in the New City with שָׂרָה, and I tried taking a picture of our Sword of Damocles with the scratched camera of my phone. The scratches coupled with the twilight gleam to print a pattern on the picture.

An everchanging, mercurial pattern: the abrasions and the grooves have their own topography, and in its hike, light picks each time a different hütte to rest.

Light is lost in this labyrinth, and in its furious attempt to disentangle itself it is abraded, hurt, leaving a trail of iridescent blood. Because it is alive; for remembrance, for spite.

Light dances in cracks and imperfections, and yet, who takes a picture with a broken lens? Marching, like a mindless soldier, light ends up depicting nothing more than our eyes can, or wish to, see.

Odin will trade once again its eye to know, to soar above the common.

Rituals or sacrifices are always needed to ascend and see beyond.

With a porous volcanic stone, I’ll sacrifice the lens to the local Gods of the underworld, and then drink light from the cups of crests and glens they catastrophically created.

Fotografare attraverso le anomalie, i limiti, le deformità. Attraverso i graffi, fotograffiare.

I’d never undress for you
And I could, never, for you
Talk

To a me already bare’n tender
In Septembrine supple splendour
With no alibi I bow, surrender

The virgin corolla is not pried
In midnight incarnations readings
As carnation’t blooms

Genesis. Disarmed inner shackles receding
In childlike awe tracing with desirous fingers
Delicate old spells left on pale derma

I am, eager to learn new words
In creases and lush vestiges of Dharma
Nomads of visions, awake all night

It’s us playing in a windowless room
In flickering winnowed dust, an omen.
My hands crave making sense of it,

Crave to be in your mystery roaming
In the cycle again, to another bookshelf.
Maybe, that’s the prophecy itself.

Sunrise before bed
At nighttide she said,
Spell on the fate ahead,
Sunrise before bed
Pink ebbs in the head
Ere’t on reveries’d tread
Sunrise before bed
The dawn consumes the dread
Soothes the dead, settles the score
Sings you to sleep
Steals every terror, weep
From a now powerless core:
The dark

In the quiet orchard
In the gentle park
In the hospital room
Sunrise before bed
Threatens the gloom
Wicked hands ties
Sunrise before bed
Mirrors your luminous smile.

You close your radiant eyes
As if ready for sandman’s embrace.
Gently pushed by timid ease
Closure calms your face;
Erupting, the asters rise
As a legion, not as one:
Too splendid for a lone Sun
Glows, your heartshine lipworn
Sunrise before bed
Anew, fiery glory’s born.

T’ho chiesto di spogliarti,
E intravista senza malinconia
Anziché mettermi a giocare, cercarti,
Capir che l’ombra fosse nel macinare
Ti ho cacciata, ancor fragile, via

Sospettandoti in veli segreti
Che però eran manto non del tuo corpo
Di fiamme e languido sole tenuto
Ma della mente mia – e d’un suo stampo
D’un acerbo scambio d’essere e essenza
Che a inganno ostinato, elargiva innocenza

Apollo e le sue baie
D’orate fiamme, è cupa
La stazione al sospiro;
Al trapasso, l’oste oscuro
E scomposti rotismi in mestizia,
A eroi dell’oggi, che non indurano
Burattinano, passo e voce
Ch’altrimenti è eterna nebbia
Al trogolo, nel divorare atroce

Inatteso il crepuscolo
T’ingiunge il dargli udienza
Ché possa far canto di gavia
Sveltamente ritirata a nido
Dalle piogge di primo pianto
Sui muti sepolcri del lido