Poetry: March 09, 2011

Metaphors are easy, when you hide behind a lust for life.
And abrupt are the changes psychic circumstance installs
that instill the sense of cosmic strife.
We scar and burn our skin with badges,
the stitches of which, navigate the death of Christ.
But, WE HAVE GOODS TO SELL, so let us speak of birth,
from its autumnal hearth, I hear the earth.


No temerity, no tomorrow.
Notoriety, no tomorrow.


Once you've figured out the game
the only defense they have left,
is to call you insane.


You miss it when it's gone
because everything moves on.
This is the key to the ZOOATHALON.


PROMETHEUS farts,
just like other men,
while another, just as
bloated, throws darts.
Deep inside a pub,
while his restless
woman reggaes,
rub a dub dub.
Bouncing as she eats
her meatball sub.


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MILANO 9th MARCH 2011
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