felix nicolau

let me! have me! take me away! tell me tell me how nice i am with golden bronze lizard glasses... i can’t stand i don’t want anymore! i’ve allowed you too much to fumble my heart

entering the dome il carabiniere shouted at me: ma che cosa fai! and fumbled my knapsack but wasn’t good either – va fa’n culo! and I lingered in san marcus square with the pigeons

again I desire a golden-nape cur - I’ll have it I won’t have it I’ll have it - only for me and for you: with laurel handlebars and shaved or perfumed arm-pits - a star-like cur in a

what’s up, pal! one of these days I’ll lose my temper and throw bones at you morning… a jug filled to the brim with rancid butts he - diagonally writing after a reading

or enormous balls rocking the belly with pearl-strewn mazurkas sparkling down the semi-precious bowels and the heart-alarm whizzing in the parking lot behind the chest (as a scream

in the memory of the scented and shiny greases burnt for lightening the Stomach lamp greenishly sizzling along the tarpaulined shore or the semitones in the memory of those spots on the

suddenly all the things did pour out! over the blind lamp flew the heron-like Holy Spirit so ribs were predicted to my chest – and in their honour I went hoeing across the field of my

up rises his arm to the stony nape how frost-biting there why are you scratching there? she laughs (without noticing his concrete face reinforced with painful spanners) everything’s a

so first thing in the morning I got on the top of your Nose with the Noon stubbornly panting close by the world’s sadness was lying as a cake to my feet - only your lips outlining the

bull-necked poets still live (scarcely 300 of them) on Popov summit – they hunt as a rule back in Amazonia and nestle all over Zanzibar Bekescsaba and

only a watery land as an Eye wherefrom goats drink with ash-eagles whizzing over the hills after a prey scattered all over the shore (this stormy scribbling is shaking the lamp as a

IT WOULD BE BETTER to know who has lately walked in the Balcony for instance there can be some climbing intentions that generate complications with symptoms of toll at least grandma would

it’s not from your hands that I expect my virginity - it’s not you the one I arrange my fangs for (restoring the zodiac)  that wonderful age when you kingly shoot at the mayor

stay by me Solitude is freezing my legs Sadness is rummaging my entrails stay by me and my skin will develop a pleasure herpes we will rove the streets accompanied by a boasting flag

dragon with hips twisted southward hocus! sticks anointed with rustling under drum beatings pocus! on the hill back mane with scarlet ruffles preparatus! but abracadabra! and the white hare

it’s true I’ve found under the bed a bag with Faces of your own I thought they were old and you wouldn’t wear them anymore so I overthrew them in a pot - I needed the bag for

sufficient for me some paralysed-with-silence birds in the skies and your head gently springing among flocks with folded sails The Archer on guard

why should you cry with the light on? it’s raining on your back and your hands are trembling light the fire turn the heat on kindle the embers with my heart some chits have grown up in the

“But ha! ha! ha! full well is me For I am now at liberty” (Thomas Wyatt) far away lost in her powers lonely – I keep bustling and the lance-woman slaps me kills me and simply takes off all alone

nothing more beautiful than the youth of an old body with rough ballet-like gestures under the shelled skin the crusty muscles – free of virginal curves nothing more melodious than the