the servant ghost –
His enlightened finger
stone on stone
Dana Stefan
towers of the high
spurs on you to take off –
the clear sky
Dan Norea
the brunt of the scale –
on time’s tracks
the same
voice wearing a cash coat white footsteps built on spherical notes sky drove them towards blue magic sea into the winter like a summer within the beat of the drums leaf skydives away on the top of
a twist of legs, a sort of side jump shadow
getting wild behaviour to its happy roots
no-body can resist to this merry-go-round
virus
“amour” is the only word remained in his
the monk softly touches a dusty piano
no chords around but all in one
he\'s a sort of big brother
with Charlie \"the bird\"
the rhythm shakes our heads dramatically fast
and he hits
Jack is the hobbit that doesn’t give a shit
that his dirty fangs are filtering the air
the levitation buried in ecstasy is important
when laughing, faced backwards,
sun dies for a fucking second
Jack, help me
bring me a spade, an anchor
and ropes
a pollen geyser will erupt
from this flower
kick my ass
until I won’t remain outwardly
fingers try to touch her
outlining
I may say that these three states are strongly connected one with each other. Fixation is a sort of obsession, obsession is a sort of passion, but the thing that makes a difference between them is
I drink myself from the cup
where blood is recycled
for rent
in a taxidermal lighthouse
broken and lonely
she sits on a wooden table
where others wait for the
musical drug to
I’m the silence you’ve searched for so long in order to kill you
now here we are, face to face – you, a corpse corked up
by the new roots of the autumn lilies … searching for water
I lay on
on a big red plain jack walks in a circle
searching his sight onto the ground
he carries an axe in his right hand,
with the shiny blade showing his sneer
in the left hand he wears a pair of
the red half of jack’s eye
stares at me as to a murderer
for watching quietly like a voyeur
at the nothingness behind
***
jack ... wake up you fucking old shit
your beard grew twice in a
I’m running
behind me only the dust remains
and the pathways wherethrough the spiders wandered their prey
since I was born
I’m looking only forward
never backwards
I sweep away with a
rest your wounds in my shelter
tomorrow when I’ll have to die
you shall give me a kiss
Thy word’s powerfulness
stroke within my core
I’m trembling
my fingers – the proof
shall rest
through dice the six-shooter gleams at the burnt end
of the bullet
at the other end, like in a comet tale,
blood spheres
within angles the meat pieces quench
on the alleys: first step from
hell is beyond the grey blocks –
the desert where no human skeletons
resisted to erosion, but became part of
the screams represent the only voice
of those suffering souls
that moan when the
skin burnt by the wind
eyes staring at the grave
streams of blood
wraiths under leaves
remembrance strips crucified in every eye
hang on sharp blades of grass
on flaked benches
on shadows running
the path of breath is the straight marked by a wheel
the whole silence is the law that the self carries
the tenuous print of the sun beams
is the eternal word and the space’s trap
MS