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suicide poetry

ho fatto una pausa la stoffa per tendine aperta
penso spesso alla cittŕ bella
senza sosta
ho visto i archangels nel mio mela-albero la notte scorsa
rumori che si sforzano strapparsi
quel compagno sconosciuto č venuto sul mescolareare i piedi
sonno, fratello grigio della morte
e pane del breaketh non di piů
fino alla sua finestra dell'alloggiamento
i poets dicono a
il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
la sua faccia č giusta e liscia e fine

 



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