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Don't forget to get lost in the Empire's river.

Twain shaking looks make flimsy sounds,

untold lips reveal the secrets of the Moon.

How to do things right if there is no pattern for life?

Darwin's looks go all over me, 'What a pity! - he says -

Look at the swan's dance, something went wrong.'

White feathers turn black, depraved yet elegant.

The performer melts the disaster with a crescendo

while bare figures dance under the shiny Milky Way.

The arrangement is wrong, the moment even more.

A silent sky shows its solitude of endless dark stars

mirrored in the choreography of those naked souls.

Nobody had a gun, but we heard a shot, who killed who?

An interlude that made whoopers fly away, music stays

in the memory of the water that possess many decades.

The worn figure is sealed in a blue velvet saxophone tune.

Faces all around me have no eyes and mouths to show.

I meditate on Kerouac's road, no Nirvana rainbow, uh?

A man is alone, because he feels so, under the Sycamore's shadow

where a feminine figure follows the tempo of reversed words.

This impenetrable rain is a kind of distraction from nonsense pain.

There is an absence of structure for the bosom's keen desires,

eternal dialogues on a subject that not even the Lord understands.

My orbit is a forest of flowers, I live there as an eternal gentle sound.

24th of August 2017, Rome

© Illustration by AITCH