Buccolision (part I)
In the shadow of the reflection of this obtuse-angled mirror
Harvesting the semen of the most beautiful of our hanged men
Young girls in bloom in abundance of our dreams
Of languor and love gently on our lips
Forever lying under swarms of bullets
Without the torturous sensation of feeling dirty
The optics through the hole for the iris snuggles
Stares at his victim with a bruised look
Alone and frail with exorbitant and bloodless accents
Intoxicated with the scents of an undesirable person ©strange
in exocrine glands with unhealthy exudates
who cherishes it out loud and carries it in her bosom
Translated for p/ English: BUCCOLISION
Standing in the shadow of this obtuse-angled mirror's reflection
Harvesting the seeds of our prettiest hangman
Young girls in the prime of life galore, in our dreams
Of languor and love, on our lips, softly
Without the torturous sensation of filthiness
Optic through the hole where the iris huddles
Stares at its victim with heartbroken eyes
Drunk with the stale smell of an undesirable strangeness
Of exocrine tassels and unhealthy exudations
Which cherishes it aloud and carries it in its womb.
The Mistaken One (Geography is Just a Sympton) (part II)
I am the mistaken one, once again.
And so is the ocean.
So is this ocean I have to fight, but we're not fighting in the same league.
All this seems so useless. So senseless.
I won't fight this time, tired to get insane.
Geography is just a symptom.
Five summers of a recurrent dance, on the rhythm of fear, anger and misunderstanding stopped harassing me.
A new season for sharks.
I know most of them, most of their habits but shadows of newcomers are getting closer.
Nevermind potential bites, I'll keep on swimming .
A new season for a dive.
Determined to hit rock bottom, escaping waves and streams.
Consciously.
I am the mistaken one, once again, embracing the ocean.
Kissing you for a last breath.
Kissing you for a lost dream.