London
caressing the bruised pelt of a perpetual wisdom...

Poetry is the might
to individuate the most latent blooms...

The nightmare
is that nobody is out there...

If you kill the messenger
The message forever...

Where has the butterfly winged?
Where has the flower gone...

God is dead,
thus Zarathustra said...

To P&Q
Loneliness...

The penumbra of Illumination.
The echo of birds’ footsteps in silence...

You the killer of my father.
You the pain...

There was always me loving you
no past, no future...

Breeze,
the cool bed-sheet of white dreams...

The black man Jazzes
and fire...