a painting (another way of keeping a journal)

the sparrow is blessed, says the quarantined priest, waiting for the moth

john doe is mummified and relieved, dancing on the severed wing of a nightingale

the painting is born in the palm of a maid, swirling like a toad, the paintbrush collapses in an epileptic fit, hitting the ground

to the sound of horses pounding the sky

to the sound of midgets hung on rainbows

to the sound of unicorns and shadows

to the sound of crucified clowns and memorial winos

the bottle is as thin as a kiss, the silken glass bears the reminiscence of a darkened piano

liquefied into a sequel

the dusk is soft and crippled by the summer rain

it will surely transform into a mirror

as all sunburned peepholes do, one after another in an endless row of garments and columns

literally ripped apart by the shrewd Mediterranean storm, but intact in the end … just like a cruel puppet

in a lethargic posture