wrongs

they are more into
exclusions
we do not mind somehow
we are also
not into inclusions

outside inside
they are the same
it is the circle
it is the cycle that only happens
front of bars
or behind bars
nothing matters much
it is how one sees it
either from the heart
or from the mind

echoes

when i sleep with you
i listen to the echoes of your moans
in the hills
i hear every word that misses
the pointless
the phrase that needs badly
a clause
to complete the periods of life
the commas of death
the exclamation of
surprises
there is no end to this quest
for the meaning
of my skin
the maps of love that fingers
closely monitor
the nests of forgiveness
still birds
without wings
clipped claws
and blank stars to the boundless
horizons
bluish afternoons
on shadows of trees
and hills on fading colors
green then black

wearing the masks

for fun
the masks too wear masks
the world does not play
dropping dead
it meets the mask with another mask
and then
laughs
there is this feast
of pretensions
away from the serious shelves
where books only
read about
the chapter where the heroine
makes love
her only weapon
her whiteness against the night skies