We were neither good nor bad. Those are words invented by us, poor biped beings, to chronicle our actions.
In retrospect, I think we resided in the unknown, in the fuzzy space situated at the core of that city: a city born from some kind of inexplicable cosmic irony.
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
image: YuriyZhuravov; Shutterstock; [link]
“His story was tragic.
Yet he was too shallow to live his own tragedy, and too weak to escape it.
It occurred to me that he has woven a web of lies in which he lived like a curious spider lacking his own body.
Night and day crawling, spastic legs weaving lies, suffocating anybody who dared to approach him. Empty, in the middle of his own cobweb, contorting his legs, existing somewhere between heaven and earth in a demotic world not created by God, but by a relapsed and dark demiurge.
Angelo, are you still listening to me?”
“Who dares not, Clara?”
excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers.
image: conrado; Shutterstock; [link]
Meadows where trees sleep, and rivers stretch like cats.
Fairies dance tarantella in the air.
Your purple lips reflect the shadows of the women you will love.
Your eyes as thirsty as the surface of the moon.
image: Fesus Robert; Shutterstock; [link]
Clocks drip languor.
White drapes undulate in the breeze of a faraway sea.
The fragrance of oranges blossoms in my hair.
Mysteries of the blue waters exude from your salty skin.
Moorish patterns engrave themselves onto my thighs.
Teardrops scent the air.
Our afternoons: never born, never allowed to die.
image: nito; Shutterstock; [link]
the rhythm of castanets awakens the moon
on opal rings your kisses spin
a cricket’s hitting a crescendo
waves tattoo dark shadows on your skin…
continue reading here
image: iordani; Shutterstock; [link]
my eyes are water wells
mirroring your body
into a time which shrinks
my lips shine on stained glass
windows to the sea
a virgin violin
faints into your lap
sick with jealousy
the summer hangs in trees