The bull's-eye on
your chest, the black marker...

He had tied the brown thread on the pole
relieving the spirits from trees for the start...

I was ready to board the ship
laden with terror on mortal waves...

Completely broke,
an empty glass, wants...

They were decapitated
in winter...

With unease, I follow
the terror on terrace...

Part of me? like a morpheme,
you are leaving...

No, I don't think,
when I write. My poem...

A futurist virginity in black rose
was seeking posthumous award...

After a little wee,
I will put the record straight...

A war was on,
(psychological...

The waves
had brought me to you...