felix nicolau

tender with steel balconies is Angel John trotting down Victoria Avenue all made of gold-sky of nickel and sky of plastic-sky oh, I couldn’t have

down the beach to the spa deciphering the bashfulness of that lilac bloomed while being in mission: betrayed sand! the skinny Sunday at a gallop on a pink horse

I don’t use to be young any longer – too seldom my mornings begin with kisses on mouth or on crest closer and closer is heaven whirling around

back on the Found-Ling Pelican a small parrot tattooed on the crestless chest but with two beaks and bronze spurs the gorgeous belly splashed with 7 scars but the hands carved for

on shabby boneless and bald navels (from Paşcani to Ceamurlia) let me die unless I hugged you with bright fire from my balls bulky chains bulky chains in spite of my enemies I did coil gold

when you laughed (if you really did that) your head fell down in a ditch a spring head under your teeth the golden film of universal dirt and I slapped the tin of your eye I kicked

from this window one can see traces of tango far away into space on planets gold beetles waltzing in groups of 5 kopecks tomorrow we’ll be shooting the last sun (before the migratory

a nut tree of solitude - it’s the apple of your eye - it’s the quince of your eye - it’s the tangerine of your eye - it’s the plum of your eye over the nut tree a stripped sky in soft hues

many have been dissembled under eaves between basins the frost the rain the stink have finished the rest about him they said he had moulded God into 3 scrap-windows, but he

telling fortunes in a worm’s palm I become conscious of some rather sharper than longer claws a nothing is handsomely blowing over the tulips and close to her breasts I discover a Holland

stop forgetting that kiss all over the ledges where the skinny cat of my chastity could tear it off with a well-sharpened Mew thrust under forty kilograms of full moon at the very root

alas, bibelot, tree whizzing among the blocks visage turned from the sky to the market-faced South of the mountain

the slum princess I struck a tattoo on your ass - how the hell was I supposed to know you were a Nazi? (in fact a brownish retort snatched from a tender garlic-stewed movie) he kept

rest there: pull out arms and with a kiss four the dawn is at present a figure fracturing the darkness with its golden trunk then the leg and the small beak-like heap

a nut-sized pony has burst at your nape...even your moustache isn’t as sharp as it used to be...in the sink the violin has been lying dirty for two months...the bitch might

I was riding such a huge cat… (if one unscrewed its head one could realize what a termite was that) around us but through the fog the square jeans were swimming…the golden ass cursing from

today I do this tomorrow I’ll clarify that in the morning I’ve been to maybe on Thursday I’ll finish with tonight I’ll speak for will you come the day after tomorrow? you didn’t come