collection

heavy Sunday cover,

on the bubbling, of the blood

weekly weights, squatting, on their muscles,

fallen to the interior, of oneself,

then,

again, one self, you, are found, once again.

the bells ring for no reason and we also ring bells for no reason and we too will rejoice at the noise of the chains, which we will ring, in us, with the bells

what is this language that maddens us?

we must jump, in the light!

our nerves are whips in the hands of time,

and doubt, comes, with a single, colorless, wing, , , , screwing itself on! and compressing,

crashing into us, like, crumpled paper, of the unwrapped, gift from another age!

to the glistenings of the fishes,

of bitterness

the bells ring for no reason and we too

the eyes of the fruits look at us attentively and all our actions are controlled

there is nothing hidden

the water of the river has fully washed its banks

it conveys the sweet sons of perception,

,who have, lain in heaps at the foot of walls in bars,

,who have, licked life with their tongues,

,who have, enticed the weak, bound by temptations, dried up by ecstasies,

,who have, dug at the bottom of old variants,

and untied the sources of the tears of prisoners.

the sources served in daily newspapers, these are suffocations

visions taken with dry hands

the clear product of day, or the cloudy appearance, which gives the worrying richness, of the smile, screwed on, like a flower, in the morning boutonniere

for those who ask for rest or voluptuousness, the touches of electric vibrations, the bursts, the adventures, the fire, the certainty.

or

or the slavery

the viewings,

which have crept along the discreet worn torments, the cobblestones of the cities, expiating much that is mean, in the almances,

and, following tightly around the ribbons, of water,

they flow towards the seas, carrying on their passage, the human refuse, and the human mirages.

the water of the river has washed its banks so well

that even the light slides on the smooth wave,

and falls to the bottom with the heavy shine of the stones

the bells ring for no reason and we do too

the concerns that we carry with us

those are the interior garments that we put on, every morning

which the night undoes with dreamy hands, adorned with, useless, metallic, rebuses,

purified in the bath of circular landscapes,

in the cities prepared for the carnage,

of sacrifice

near the seas, to the sweeping of perspectives, on the mountains to the disquietings, the severities in the villages, with painful nonchalances, the heavy hand on the head

the bells ring for no reason and we too

we leave with the departures, arrive with the arrivals, leave with the arrivals,

arrive when the others leave

for no reason, a little dry, a little hard! severe!

bread!

food!

more of the bread!

it comes with a song, delicious and savory on the excursions of the voice!

the colors drop their weight and think, and think or cry, and, stay and eat, of fruits as light as the smoke in its layerings,

and thinks to the warmth, that weaves the word, around its core,

the dream, which is named,

us

the bells ring for no reason

and we too walk, to escape, the swarming of the roads, with a flask of, landscape.

with a single disease only, one disease that we cultivate

death

I know that I carry the melody in me and I am not afraid of it

I carry death and if I die, it is death that will carry! me!

me, in his arms, imperceptible, thin, and light like the smell of lean grass, fine and light, like a departure without cause

without bitterness without debts without regret without the bells, ringing without reason

and we too

why look for the end of the chain that connects us to the chain?

ring bells for no reason

and we too

we will ring in for ourselves, broken cups, and silver coins mixed with counterfeit

we will ring in the debris of parties

of parties bursting into laughter,

parties storming at the gates, at which could open chasms! the air tombs! the grinding mills! grinding the arctic bones!

these parties bring our heads! to heaven!

spit on our muscles!

nights! of molten led!

I speak of who speaks, who speaks, I am alone

I am only a small noise! I have several noises in me!

a noise of ice! crumpled at the crossroads, thrown on the wet sidewalk at the feet, of men in a hurry running with their dead around all the dead who stretch out their arms!

on the hourdial alone, they are alive in the sun

the dark breath of the night thickens

and along the veins sing the marine flutes, transposed on the octaves of the layers of various existences.

lives

are repeated endlessly, until atomic, thinness!

on high, so high! that we cannot see with these lives alongside, we do not see the ultra violet of so many parallel paths

those that we could have taken!

or those by which we could have not come into the world

or have already departed, left a long time ago! so long that we would, have forgotten, both the era, and, the earth!

the earth that would have, sucked our flesh

salts and liquid metals, limpid,

at the bottom of the wells

I think of the warmth,

that weaves the word, around its core,

the dream, which is named,

us