I
The postman arrived
He comes from far away
A letter in his hand
stretched out, “this is for you”!
Tiny letters on the envelope
I read small and concise
But I fight with the black dog
of a tall man
who struggles with himself
How many days more?
Tiny and concise,
I recognize the letters and
This letter is yours,
Signed: Little men

II
Socks in a tree dry.
Such a merry day for the socks tree
They watch us
fighting with the black dog.

III
A small series
The birds
The mother and the child
The man in front
They fly, walk, sit, live, watch
the small series of the days

IV
Of course it needs some premeditation
You just don’t do it lackadaisically
Something as an organized hullabaloo
would be more appropriate
The killing will look more like
you really needed a vengeance.
You kill them with a knife, others vote you.
You stab with a well-thought plan,
the plan of who gets away with it
unstained, in his suit and properly knotted tie,
while the bloody idiots lay in a disordered
street.
You of course are in your right
The right to kill and the right to reign,
to spoil lives, shout and cry in Parliaments,
Of course, you killers have the right to cry
On spilled beans, Ghosts united, void eyes.

V
Sweet words to the stabbed
Sweet deeds to the done away with,
the deprived of their future
Young and old and old youngsters
drowned in anachronisms

VI
The ones without the words

Shriek in the dark
Speak only with the lights out.
Somebody could hear them
The garden gate is sealed
The curtains hide their fantasies
haunting phantoms of an uncanny routine
Somebody could believe they exist

But they insist

They hate smiles
Smiles remind them of life
And they hate love because love is life
And you can lose

They’d rather have the universe
Telling them they’re right
And therefore the universe
Is at fault of being a universe
Because it doesn’t tell them anything
It just shows its stars
But light is a torture
For the brooding in the dark
.
They do not go out

They watch television
They encounter the phantoms of their past
In the darkness of long ago forsaken dreams
And broken days to come

The ones without the words

VII
In a curve
on the bike, the sudden knack
of the handlebars
and the twist of the front
wheel engaged into the lane
with a dog along your right pedal
drifting
your mind in a zigzag, on your sway
to the unknown.

VIII
I have some time
ago she said
deeply struggled
with the idea of death
Conciliation with it
was hard on me
For a while until
I made a colored engraving
On it a dead hand
holding a hammer
let the hammer fall
as a feather
into the light blue gaze
of the unknown.

IX
I hold the
time in my hands
My fingers
My arms
My body
dips in the grass
Holds a grass root to my lips
whistles and
goes dizzy with the sight
of ephemeral poppies
Look into the eyes of
A Caravaggio bloody red
Virgin,
Dig a hole for
The coming rosemary
Plant green babies
All around
Greet the
eyes of euphoric
Asteroids,
Listen to a symphony
of timeless class,
in a timeless space of
eudemonic grace.

X
So it is
IX tired me
Because time
Was passing by.
It took a watch out of its pocket,
And held it to my face.
I left, it was before the enemy struck.