Dresses Inburnt Orange

arise from the walls

Masked for days by the tides of light, sometimes
suddenly emerges from the bottom of a wall that realm either
lurking shadow that comes and goes with me.
So
like memory overflowed,
as if they were part of a tapestry that was rebuilt and filled indefinitely
images appear unfinished, vague flashes,
paintings that resemble a cloud
sample or set of figures wait in the drawing of foliage where hides
Prince, where do you hide the ogre?,
and what is on track to reach or to escape?

opens for a moment the smoke-woven fabric and the brightness of the abyss.
arrive faces were always and never in the highest waves of love, unquenchable
cities where the weather was a bird on fire, which hit streets
walls of the world, holiday apartments
as the radiant heart of a star,
tattooed stones to remember. However
errors and the thicket closed.

But the winds changed.
A hand moves the contours
ignorant or a trail of alcohol eating ignites havens promised
and a face is another face, a city
leper approaches involved in the rags of exile,
the roads are closed to air raiders of gardens,
the interiors are dark cloths of profanity,
each heaven is a fallen angel in the corner. However
a lamp flawed in the bush.
To transform this vision,
to sink back into the wall to the cast of oblivion. Now
their way unspeakable geometries, construction debris
unprecedented as an apocalypse, fragments of shipwrecks dark
erected in a Babel of iron,
enigmas as white desert waiting for a word is embedded.
Where was the castle?, Where the witch's house?
It is as if they had mixed up mosaics excavated
faults, mistakes multiplied.
I do not see the model to find the key to complete the meaning of my life
-perhaps a ladder in a vacuum, perhaps a talisman to be lost.

Ah, if I could separate again light and darkness,
continue until the end the invisible threads as children's puzzles,
maybe get two perfect designs, two beautiful mazes. So once
Lorenzetti painted two frescoes on two walls of Siena
inks "The good and bad government. "
One fire burned in his bleak.
remains intact which absorbed the light until God meets
and the walls are open and times
not speak.
.
.

No. 4 of the night drifting (1984)

I Have Something On The Side Of My Butt

Safe Place stubs

Wherever they are split into two sleep hive, exposing
city
giant honeycomb made by bees insane
is not difficult to recognize my cell from other cells.
My house is the one that never comes.
behind the walls leaving behind the open;
approaching walls then a scene where the storms howl
inscribed with burning hazards that are like torches in the dark,
with black silhouettes that are tested on the faces of terror and absence:
trophies collected at random from the heady night trips .
And now this setting sun, as bright as one that returns
, incomparable, Aurol my dead?
This house has no roots or ties, and suddenly
walk, walk like a sleepwalker
from the sand to the sea ch
echoing his chilling laughter tumbling pebbles,
or brushing against a sudden trembling winter, or
whispering incomprehensible formulas against the evils of the moon
that soon passed from side to side.
you not see how tearing slips between two scaffolding flanks ghost? There is also no cohesion or
certainties. Where there was a blind
wall opens a door to the red
as an irresistible invitation into the chambers of torture high.
windows overlooking a bright December
groping slide to frame the marauding gray surround me with their faces
hole left in the glass and its insistent signal
too pushy.
Not to mention a spot where you can sleep with the herb alone.

It lifts the roof and falls on me that debris curtain that closes the sky
or me sucking huge yawn of a foreign night.
runners sink into the rooms of looting arms and platforms
and escape with their load of bales that go beyond.
cracks often arise for which I contemplate my invisible witness spend
and foreign chambers next to my bed with their people, their dogs, their chores
like statues carved in the current runaway.
The soil is a beast that awaits me with open mouths.

And always, everywhere, the rustle of wings
planning around my head, trot
this vermin in flight to nowhere, flapping rags
this agitated by the breath relentless death. Ordeal

appealed as a tribunal of stars,
tests that someone deigns to grant an intimate place in this world.

I, with the shadow to the neck.

No. 3 of the night drifting (1984)

Get Pokemon For Ti-84

. Perhaps
as clouds,
perhaps as a reflection that always slips through the sand,
I grope in my shadows block sculpture,
exact match with the image that imposes the model.
is a relentless master snatches the breath and press my shell. Watch
from my shoulders every step and not support deflections
trails or other Eden, or the flight of the saints, nor the flight of Elijah. Our covenant is
rock tyrannical
in rock must be stamped copy of the law, and my substance
is docile but uncertain,
more wrong than a bird brought by the glass at night, awakening
a dream in the middle of another dream.
collapses and stands in ghostly swirls as I go;
filters down to the ground chasing a misleading impression on the tapestry;
dazzled throws against a harsh light beam on a spray head.
sometimes perverse idols condenses into white or other statutory age.
Sometimes it's a bowl
nothing more than a humble and desolate bowl in the rain, waiting
of precipitating the vision or bury the beam.
When I can one hand, I lose a foot;
when I reach the edge the rest dissolves into empty terrain.
not like them never from my heart to my lips, less felicitous
Adam,
or pebbles that perpetuate certain memorable scenes along the beaches,
or players in a dark fable dictated by the mouth of the oracle.
I come to think that my model is impossible and cruel,
shifting shape and color when they grazed just a gesture,
barely a trace.
But I continue to obey to end his inhuman mandate
I, the little mirror, mist
accumulated in the doorway, the question
misses never to reveal the Sphinx and the response. Perhaps my destiny is
as irreversible seal qu leave nostalgia:
unmet footprint,
the fate of being about something I'm not.
.
.

No. 2 of the night drifting (1984)

Gaston County Tax Value

against a model pupil in your great Variations on time

.
recognize me, night,
I feel, I count,
but not as greedy as a false blind
or as someone who never knows who is shipwrecked and who lay.
I have chosen to grope for statue of your allegories,
only by custom to plunge the world where you just lose your head
and in every cloud and every step the ground beneath your feet.
And does your stepdaughter was not always preferred
that coming on without hesitation into the trap concocted by your hand,
the bites the poison apple or mirror copy of your beauty traitor?
forgot to tie the mast of the house when you were spending
to keep me out every time after your flute Thief delighted children,
and was at the expense of the day I mistook in your bag and the white snow, wolves and shadows.
now too late to go back and correct the hours under the sun.
Now I have checked with your alphabet black.
belong to the tribe of staying in radiant darkness
of which look better with closed eyes and lie down on the side and rear of Abyss and never return flight
when Tom throws open the doors of the apparent noon . You
covers your Thebaid in the unseen. You not give evidence. Your event, secret, numberless, without asking,
as turned inward contemplation,
where each signal is the trembling of a bird in a huge room and every rise
a leap into the void from bleachers and absences. You watch me Tdesde
everywhere
curtains drew back, piercing the walls bales of darkness peering;
find me and me with the look of the hunter and the control, while
discover in the middle of your high weeds the splendor of a lost city,
or look in vain for traces of the future in your crossroads.
You are going who knows where, following the variations of temptation unattainable ends
trying on the faces of horror, of extreme beauty,
the impossible distance from others, touch from hell,
visions that crowd as far as you reach the darkness that I have, as far
death start to roll down with carriages, with stones and dogs.
But I'm not asking you or veils parted exhumed lamps.
Do not claim a lesson in light
how not claim to water by the flame or waking from sleep.
Or would rely less on you than on the hard, suspicious stars?
We have seen many insoluble mysteries with its white glare, even in bright sunlight!
Just take me by the hand and through a forest carpeted
night, creeping night,
learn what I mean, what the wind whispers,
and could finally read to the bottom of my little great night in your pupil.
.
.

No. 1 of the night drifting (1984)