She dreamed of the wild

Is it me or is it you when I look up at the sky and see myself times two? I am both the common love and the common enemy. Are you ready to be loved by everyone? Are you ready to be hated by everyone?

I truly feel when I fear.

I feel the warmth of the Sun stroking me. I liberated it from the everlasting night comforting us with lights harvested from her dreams. I feel the soul of my lover. It liberated me from the dark feather attached to my fireside. A small detail, yet always noticeable.

I fear the cold’s kinkiness tonight. It bit me in the act of love. I fear the white feather turning into grey, since the black dot of ink dissolved on this very paper of mine. I fear the twilight switching between my white and black feather.


[…] White feather Vol. I : ”Daytime was only curse and torture for me. The black feather was alive, plotting with the Sun against everything I stood for. My lover was never home. My lover was never mine. My lover never was. He did not have a name or a face at daytime, yet I remember every detail of his missing figure. I named him Lilac Grey, that’s when he was real, when the sky shared the same name as him.

[…] Black feather Vol. I: ” Night-time? It’s in the colour of your cheeks! Flourescent prickles disappear after the daytime leaks. I could grow roses from your eyes! What a juvenile Earth I discovered in you. Would you like a message? I grow my seeds on a musical note which goes like this: ”I loved a girl named Julia once, she would hang me up by my own románce”. A French romance, for the rhyme.

[…] White feather Vol. II: ” What’s your favourite number from one to seven? Death. So five it is then!” Lilac Grey was faceless once again, while Icarus has stolen the show with a million-years-away dying star. He drowned in sunlight, the same way I am. Both of us eager to fly, both of us eager to melt away from warnings.

[…] Black feather Vol. II: The number 5 reminds me of you, a virgin soil. Earth has gotten me fascinated and the lady who owns it, well, she got an eager observer under her dust. But even the dreams of the conquerers die in time. The dream of me ever owning you rests with the prickle-scars, that remind me of death. What a beautiful shape does mortality have.

[…] No feather Vol. I: The everlasting beauty lies in the dreams that are so perfect and so beautiful, and therefore they will remain dreams and you will remain real. I enjoyed the prickles you pushed through my cheeks. I am looking for something to feel.


A dandelion in the drought of my soul

The Roman Empire ruled over the world for DVII years, before its collapse into the dusty abyss of the history books. Today, the number 507 represents merely a hospital bed you’re laying down on, so that a stranger could examine your body that unfortunately turned silent. Dead walls and air that screams. Similar to the long lost supremacy, I lost my authority over a body that doesn’t respond to any types of command anymore and it is awaiting its withering. Either way, I wouldn’t describe myself as an odd person with an extreme low intelligence level awaiting for Heaven and being frightened by Hell, however it wasn’t always so easy to admit idiocy. ”Paralyzing” as the doctors call it, left me with space and time to focus on the things that truly matter. For example, something that has been bothering me for a while was the lack of chocolate and sweets in hospitals. What could be more horrifying than not being able to scratch an itch on the left cheek of my bottom? Sugar deficiency for a child trapped in an old man’s corpse. Torture I tell you! Though as I child, I always dreamed of traveling to untouched galaxies and planets, dance in the invisible dust that would carry me far away from a world of misfortune as Earth turned out to be. I’ve dreamed of becoming a priest in a church with no gates and no keys, no windows and no priests. A church with no Gods to worship, I’ve dreamed. Now, reflection became an everyday routine, redemption became a cure to cancer and as I’m counting down the days remaining until my disappearing, I realize I didn’t use a single one on her. My daughter left this world too early some may say, but I always thought she’s just too precious to waste her spirit on this cursed planet, for she is the highlight of my unworthy soul. She is, because I can still see her everyday playing peak-a-boo whenever the lights turn up or maybe it’s just my doctor deciding whether I’m brain dead or in a dance with hallucination.

”My name is Cato!”. Yes, my name was Cato. Although at this point, I’m ashamed to use it. I’d rather stay silent, anonymous at best. I’m the Latin equivalent of a wise person. A resister against tyranny, a critique of society. Yet, who are the ones opposing our blasphemies and us? Am I ready to meet my maker?

”So tell me Cato, how much do you sleep lately?”
He asks about sleep? Last time I closed my eyes, she was still alive and I wasn’t a junkie, high on nostalgia. Although I’m sure that the so much capable doctors have another terminology for addicts. I should remain silent for the time being.

”Not very talkative are we today, Cato? Let’s trigger some sensitive spots, shall we? What is the name of your daughter?”
The name of my daughter? When she was born, she was radiance and splendor. She was created wisely with the might of the moon. She looked just like my late wife, Alcmena. Her sprit, though, was much like mine. Still, not worth to talk about to a non-believer.

”Have you taken your medication, Cato?”
My medicine is her. We play hide-and-seek every day in the room, although she didn’t grow much since last time I saw her. Juno could not curse such a beautiful creature, could she? Aigla is just one of a kind. I should probably head out and find her; this mortal is just wasting my infinite time.

 ”Daddy, look! I found mommy!’’

Yes. She was the one who found Alcmena levitating like the moon. The dead air in the room was swinging her slowly. There were no screams, my daughter was fascinated about the trick my wife was holding secret for so long. So was I.

On the good days, I have flashbacks about myself happy. On the bad days, I don’t have any flashbacks at all. The only company I get, beside a mind playing movies of the things I hold dearest, are the prison bars, because just like those insupportable humans, they scream at a rendezvous with pain. Alternatively, could it be that they sing? My aphonic soul can’t tell the difference. The same way my dearest daughter didn’t die like a dandelion in the drought of my soul.

Today she’s five. Tomorrow she’s born. Yesterday she died inside my old fireside.


Clichéd il diavolo

You are an arrogant flower, baby. // You are an imperious waste, baby. // You are an autocratic touch, baby. //

I know, baby.

Before anyone beats you to your opinion baby, figure out the hexagonal paradox I am baby. I’ll pardon the cause, now touch me baby.

Are you afraid, honey?

How objectively naked. Everlasting youth, are we baby? I would paint your blossom with the blue ocean, baby. You need some savor to the rich pepper kisses you possess, baby.

Does a Titan get rusty from the moisture of the Universe?

Unedifying nature is violent, baby. People are seducing God, baby. The stellar minds orbit idiocy silently, baby. There’s nothing more to me, than being a fraud, baby.

Mi hai cambiato la vita, dolcezza.

I’ve fallen to the outskirts of the cosmos, baby. I’m battling Titans for celestial seduction, baby. The result of our love turned me into my name, baby.

The devil is not so ugly as he is painted. You’re attracted to me. Questa è la tua caduta.

Perché per te sono il diavolo, baby.


Ephesians 4:26 (844-332)

Now, do you think orgies of questions will reveal the enigmatic evil laying beneath my passion? Earlier, at an art gallery full of disgraceful and disgusting figures, I simulated a laugh. It was a drunken monologue aimed at the confused crowd cheering for a high ending. A shooting site for those who, although having met my charm and sensuality, carried a deep hatred towards me. Perhaps my talent or my position in society made them all act like puppets on strings. Ironically, I was the master behind all of them plastic figures. Directing my own hatred back to its provenance. However, an obscure creature approached me or was it an illusion? The woman who named the Sun, as she called herself. My sweet fireball. She was a beauty you couldn’t lay eyes upon, a romantic mistake created to be put in my path. A well-designed plan, which surprisingly managed to surface the meek and gentle details I hid behind a serious face. In spite of the introduction to my own sensitivity, my ego became a crime scene painted with the eyes I began to despise. There were angry words slipping through liquid remorse, as she kept disturbing my patience while showcasing her amusement. Beauty began to be all that she was lacking. Suddenly, my passion got portrayed as ”macabre and bizarre” and nothing revolts me more than selfish lexeme. Lucky for my pessimistic abomination , a cavalier could never turn down the woman who created daylight. But then again, who is more qualified of destroying cosmic humor if not me?

A Titan and Thanatos walk into a bar…


I saw a reflection of innocence in the blue waves that took me by force. Stellar personality, a solid statement written on a goddess’ invisible nature. It was hard to rupture a response off her mouth, so I proceeded kissing the unsaid horrors of her mind. Hesitant echos, hesitant sights. A wet landslide touched my skin in darkness. Her eyes turned green for tonight, green as the poison that paralyzed our visions on each other. However, our life spawn is short, we can only have each other until the dusk’s disappearance. For when the dawn arrives, death is merely a cliche and well, who am I to carry out the nightfall and hide the morning remorse of a sinner? I’m the definition of a night assassin, shameless in the act of love and shameless in unconscious seduction.

Roll the dice

What is tragedy for a comedian? A joke that produces no laughter? A child abused by depression? A mask merely for avoidance?
What is tragedy for a comedian? A flower dead by drought? A culture immune to offense? No irony in any circumstance?
What is tragedy for a comedian? Himself.  He’s a tattoo made with a camera, fictitious. The term ”comedian” could be attributed to any of us, and yet only those who choose to wear the name tags can abduct a gloomy crowd. For there isn’t any place for people drowning by the hands of oxygen. For there isn’t any place for freedom in a prison. We are our own confinement.

What is hope for a prisoner? A sky projection of his dreams? The sunlight melting his trap? Falling into handicap?
What is hope for a prisoner? A book written with infinity? Embracing death in a glance? An unusual Gothic ritual dance?
What is hope for a prisoner? Us. He’s the kerosene to our fury, we are his end of the tunnel light. Aren’t we all prisoners, a laughing stock for the privileged? We are the gloomy crowd gathered by the tragic jukebox this world is playing. Stealing the air from each other’s lungs, a tug-of-war on a global scale. So is it really the hands of the oxygen trying to drown our thoughts? Is it our in-born limitations allowing us to be our own victims? We are criminals. We are comedians. What are you?

Thank you

August 21st, 2016

Death, an incurable miracle. A fortunate event for a troubled soul.

I appreciated the man he was. Slow in motion, yet sharp in thoughts. His words would always come to rescue, his words would always spell my name. I remember those days. The altitude was 4 and rising, we were above the clouds. He always feared me gazing down from his cockpit filled with a jungle of flowers. I waved to the ants that were my parents and quickly made a run for the chess table awaiting. He was upset with the phone, sometimes even flamed it, before returning to his nephew that cheated his way into defeat. His biggest disappointment came with my legs growing long. We placed a bet when I was five, by twenty he didn’t make it. I began ignoring him plenty before, I thought that I grew up, yet here I stand with a beat up face, wishing that I was still young. I’ll be twenty in half a year with the bet still on the table, and even though I want to win I think I’ll be unable. I’ll let you win one last time.