Cleaning the memory
off the half repaired shoe
I drop it.

The Big Night Out Clubs
make you look so inspired.
Entirely replenished
with the certain depth of gold and experience
that dragged the old man here.

It was Reno or Ronnie or Jack,
both of us dropping the soap,
to be ready to do it for the next five Tuesday's nights.
Alive Alive Alive. Show me your chest.

And it was neither the floor nor this stain that captured him.
But her awakening.

In the little cracked surface
between your side and mine
our property is lost.
The illustrations and the cartoon Maps
he is involved in
are worn out
and unadapted.
His daughter could be here
next to me
in row number five; or in a grave.
With a noisy hand shuddering and no lights.

That's her.

I fell asleep
thinking that my life was ending in the kitchen
between the trash can and the silver stool
crying for you.

No good news for the little boy (in a tank).
No rest for the flower shaped girl.

Now it's just the two of us meeting for beers
worlds apart, and a dead longing turning us
into metal wombs.

I couldn't say if I'd love you if you weren't happy
but waiting for me as a little dead bird.
You're not worth and precious.
Lying on the side of the bluest pool.

I am in the office with a small consolation.
All summer like a small antenna.

This pen doesn't work.
Endless lives had withered.
And I'm not better.

My heart is deceitful
above all things.

But someone loved it
Intensely
for one day.
And then forgot it.

The seas tremble
and I resemble them,
useful and inaccessible
flat flesh sandwich
on the sidewalk.

Keeping the neighbors up to date
with my disaster,
I rise.

And in this box the heart is
above all things,

Vanishing.

I drive like the last pirate.

In the wrong direction
Towards cliffs
past advertising signs
with great speed in me.

Waterproof
you were not,
when you called me.
Heavy rain outside the station
and me in the bathroom — drinking from the warm shower;
You fell in love with me
for the second time. Unheard.

Throwing me forks from behind
and letting go all of this fear
of growing older.
Half a mile inland
harbor lights and a skyline, irreversible.

I want to be a child forever
and nowhere in Spain.
But I look at you and miss you
gambling girl with the deepest eye;
every day each second wherever we are.

Becouse you gave me love.

I love your holes

And sell statues of us
After leaving the circus
Which lives
So well
Without me.

You sell pictures of missiles
Or hard thick lonely parts of me.
And you won the battle
And now you live
So well

Without.

Devised in 1902 by a Dutch schoolteacher
this detail does not count.
Blue heaven
and blue part of me.
She will plump for the usual
4-4-2 here.

Staff street where nobody knows you
and no one knows this is not what it used to be.

Dozens of large,
white helium filled balloons
come out of my house
and trivialize with the meaning of the Word.
Like pastels today
my fingers unfold
extended terms.
Formality
and distant
and decorous men
look apparently unfinished.

If you come here — shall I return?

My lips went dry and useless.
I am to remember their sharp attitude and those killing details
when you come here to look for your clothes.
Too cheap.
Dry and yellow in the back yard.

The trace of your hand on the door is no longer visible.
And the president has left the house now.
His face has no expression. It stands before me as an animal,
as a small exhibition of worthless talent.
A miniature.

15:55.
Between us
spaces I know
shades I dislike.

The back of people's head turns red.
As they go and burn
like
flames.
Hurry hurry to listen to this;
everything I wish or abhor
is opposite to you
at this time.
And the man walks by
over squares
of light and a pool.

In a few minutes you will be here
in your place
unrecognizable
and everybody's French is perfect. But mine.

Half of me is in your hands
and I can't take it back
or leave it there
hoping it grows back
as lizard's tail.

She said:
On a leafless tree
I sat,
throwing forks,
as if autumn.

Utterly hating you
in every possible way
and then no.
You are dear if close
and dear if far
beautiful thing happening
and great damage in my head.

Dozens of large,
white helium filled balloons
come out of my house
and trivialize with the meaning of the Word.
Like pastels today
my fingers unfold
extended terms.
Formality
and distant
and decorous men
look apparently unfinished.

Lostest loosest lovely beauty.

Despair.

I love you and hate you for the same reason.
Your impotence.

I remember looking for your house,
close to here.
Busy with your recent work
you showed me
north south east and west
and your opinion on me and the gender.

With a bag used improperly
we carefully breathed in and out
and suddenly realized
that our pictures revealed open wounds.

Mother, mother
your love costs so much
and I am unable to hurt you
the way you want.

On the wall
traces of what you have been tell me you have been younger,
All of you gazing and graceful,
but already covered with dust.

Just try to overcome this square opposition of walls.
It looks like you.

Four, three, two blisters
on my hand
and resignation
and a sudden scorn
for my simplicity.

Sure and indiscriminate
the gun points at me
fallen fly in a little bell jar.

The willingness of your philosopher
on our way home
is unacceptable.
As our intention
of perpetrating a same movement
forever.

Holding still,
in a pose of non-objection.

Congested digestion of all this food I eat.

Green accidental death
and, best of all,
some brilliant shadows hanging between the trees.

The translator works in the former Yugoslavia nation.
Twenty Thirty Forty years without intention.
She faces breakdown
and the light on her feet — middle aged
despite every flickering urban image.

Busy busy busy people
leaded by the cacophony of mobile phones' ring tones.

They slide on the diminishing return of my memories
and Katie's face. All signs and wounds.

Now passion is partly knowing why
you dare doing so much.

Most of all, she imagines a girl
wearing a dress like hers.
In a smaller size and sadness.

Congested digestion of all this food I eat.

This bodies are moving.

Dance of death.

Bite:
Brave new words.

Drummer wanted.

And the tragedy is revived surprisingly often.
It provides camp sophistication and ambitions to displace. Listeners.
Headphones headpieces headaches running
to teenage daughter's parties.

Marginalized stones are given such a prominence.
I can't imagine anything like that happening before.