I wanted to see the cicadas flourish

I should kick you out from my home,
but you left me by
all drafts and notes of your dreams
yet i am not so bad
at th moment
For now i don't assault the coaches
which transport your trouble
the few match-with which gains seconds
I just wish cicadas would return and flourish
see the growth of moths
watering gruff peasants
and the whole circus campaign
What can I do to a city without doors?
every corner can hide another yourself
a trap of your sighs
a sweetness that you forgot on the train
How do you live in the gingerbread house?
Reconstruct it whenever
you invites emotional cannibals to eat you
simple preposition of your disagreement
Come to celebrate your boredom
is the drain of dissatisfaction
tends to kidnap the possibilities at hand,
(...)

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Sad Malgorzata

Have you seen the number of years that I carry in your pockets?
They are the branches of an transparent oak
the sugar's beaches on the London smoke
the explanation for life that runs behind the death

sad Malgorzata
punished for having smiled at the glass
where only you could fill up jugs of bitter honey
along with hundreds of trunks that do not fall for inventions
sad Malgorzata
I remember you only now
sinning to know ya

I fly to win

 
I fly to win
complacency by the unhealthy for your Sunday
galleys full of innocence in black and white
from the slits of my cell walking
I can contemplate your savings to live
not believe you're unable to smile
I fly for a living
between the moths of August
they simply run away from the light
looking for the shadow
I flee to smile
against white plaster walls
who insist on drawing my favorite boards
with a single word
"back to us"
I fly to win
what I wear in like a grail of fire
phoenix and the martyrdom of my fingers
complacent incite revolution
for a desire

The Shy Painter

And now let me flow along your back
let me in
touching your skin as if I were the wind
feel as tight as a drum skin
a magnificent tool
a sound and harmony
ready to be played
compose works of darkness and desire
Breathe in the flavor of kisses
blind to the mute will
all you do is run a dance
fireflies explode from your hair
oozing understated seduction
Are you a canvas as always
and I am a shy artist
wanting to pretend
insinuated cheating
You are my greatest work
Just whisper at the end of the journey
the discovery of hidden lands
small oasis of pleasure imploded
And so those ever come to worship at a later
becomes liquid fire
(...)

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The actor himself

As small spheres of opaque glass
I Live sweeping the ashes
eruptions of illusions
from every hungry look they call celebrated
The joke is on disused longings of a closed-book story
while only a few dwarf
bordering on the parables of a delightful old pagan feel
The curtain is let down a precipice on which
transform the wind into little desire to taste ourself
Becoming so '
no people
but actors
the part of themselves in a colored robe hypocrisy
Be happy with what you have
might make you
something humanly unbearable

Marble Silence

The last breath
on a marble silence
inside the wind that flow thru my finger
on the opposite side
of the everyday corner
where the suspect
cover with dust
the mills of our farming
Another season and we will be cut
under the judgenment of this human suicide

Gestures

If I Had denied the gesture
which becomes a prayer movements
I could understand the listless image
There are not gestures
to remember with tombstones
giving the meter of love
Are little senseless century attentions
Repeated till exhaustion
Are those gestures
that day by day
are judged
from my love.
Jb Karia

C Major Walking

Without a cry
Without a memory of a perfume
A trail of glass and caresses
leading to the last action
Violent in it's infinite sweetness

Without wings and without wisps
getting lost in the ruined nights
looking for a book
or a drop of dew
in which we can intoxicate our hands

I allow myself to have you
as always on a fragile pavement

Purple ice
Schoolboys Automations
before killing
like a good samaritan
this look
that i should give to you

Spicy Cannibal

It snow on the tought's moral
On a vanity of a stray dog
that sniffing the road

We use different spices
for each cannibal
that we carry around
losing ourself
In the crowd of our more worst excuse

I want

I want a Nobel prize for patience 
and like me at all those who see clearly
on the greater glory
fighting the perverse dreams
of human selfishness
I want a statue in the square
telling the resistance
of every single human being
against the injustices and follies
I want a commemorative plaque
for fathers and mothers who believe in children
a square dedicated to mature love
a path to the ghettos of happiness'
I want that world to remember
not only the illustrious unknown
but also the dust that covers the world
Want anyone to not forget a single gesture
done without interest
Every second it happens
and do not care, only the victim
I want that we should not fear to love
but you just play to the end
and for better or for worse
(...)

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The Good Savage

As lightning runs in the life
You touched the teeth of every beast known
Just to see what they fear the nightmares
And still no rest for the kiss that no one has ever wanted a tattoo
for the heart that has not been able to cry in sadness
Crowds on the orders of the woods
Wonderful plain crazy
But the fire is not quenched
take with both hands the flames
and make a basket of roses
to take those who do not ever look
Bridal bouquet
last for a prose painted
Laccabue strong as a bullin his defying the world and every wind
But how could you hide
in your paintings that you have not incarcerated?
I dream of you in my nights on the run
flying on the back of the night
For every tiger that attacks you
ra man will die somewhere
and only a little crazy love
will be closed in a frost
Noble savage feared by the blades of grass
(...)

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