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[pianissimissimo]

Travel

I make myself so tired as to blur the lines between dreaming and driving.

A wash of faces and colours of borders and languages. They start to mingle with my thoughts stupendous coloration.

[pianissimissimo]

Summer.

The dash is full of text

my head is full of nudes

I miss the breathing, close to you

an arrogant plea for symbiosis

and as dawn comes, stealthy, steady

this body fills the empty glass.

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All the good intentions.

"Reorganize your things, declutter."

Let's see. A shard of glass, cutting at every touch

we have a knife that lost its handle

and there's a needle that's so thin, I can't see it.

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Yellow.

Now look at this mess,

we used to stroll through Cambridge

with a yellow guitar and the five songs that we knew…and

now I'm downing razor blades

and you're a double etched liaison

between the past

and what we've become.

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Faces.

The faces

of consumed lovers

should be hung on streets

as mementos

as art,

as icon of how

we need to destroy each other

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Observe.

A lovely type of hurt

to know the truth

and observe the play.

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Wonder.

Always hits me

how quickly grassland

can turn into burial ground

and water

becomes oppression.

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To all of those reading, reblogging, featuring: a heartfelt thanks, and keep writing yourself: I'm continuously inspired by all of you.

Grazie,

ppp

[pianissimissimo]

Parts.

No, if anything

you look more like Nastassja Kinski

in Paris, Texas, if you catch my

drift

it's an ocean over a desert

there's the stillness of water and sand

combined, now over me

all I ever thought

I put in a box beside our bed

and the body feels light

enough

to fly

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When.

I liked you more

when you were the ephemeral

Alice disappearing

always leaving a hint of doubt

never giving the satisfaction

of knowing.

When did you become

so clumsy, so obvious

googling preset phrases

to fit a preset situation

when did you stop being

valuable?

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Saturate.

It's as distant as seawater now.

The wonderful feeling of being home

next to you

has traded places, has shifted its shape

too many wildcards on the table

too many cards that mirror a name

so I hide inside thinly spun webs of sentences

faint escapes from this bed that starts to shrink

hoping to be freed

and mute.

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Shell.

Eyes strained

from trying to see beauty

in the hint of an embrace,

in the hesitation born out of mistrust.

In the way your body

could be mine, and I refuse

for a shell is a shell

and nothing more.

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Fashion statement.

So many feel the urge to promise

so many know already

they'll screw up

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Paris, .

I leave my gritty boots on

as I go to bed

cicadas, warm beer. lazy fan

moves the smoke and the hair on your arms

tiny blonde dancers

Do you know what one feels

when driving through the desert at night?

Your name in your ear, my beckoning you to come over

"just one more cigarette" you say

sitting in a chair,

wearing your nakedness like a triumph

as I watch you, and anticipate..

My dear, dirty destination

it's good to be back.

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Sometime.

Sometimes it just feels nice

to squander

important things.

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Sei musica.

Half time

your face: fingers over a lydian melody

so feeble, so light and transparent

I can barely write you, sitting at the corner of the bed

a wife, a ring, a story that rings true

undeniable beauty, arpeggiated from your feet to your hair

two eyes like enigmas, I wish I could stay here

and stare

oh how I wish I could close these ears

and just perceive the music of your body

spherical tones, perfect intervals

just this litany

unmixed and purified by the clumsy drumming

of bullshit

and lies.

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Sacred.

Paths, so many, and twisted so

that you can't look ahead at all, ever, not one step

and if I turn around, I turn forever

the same old cobblestone, the same rewind noise

your old tape deck, and my sacred

dilemma.