What a time
of thicked tacked times,
where endings and beginnings
are traced
on empty hands. [read more]

The Rapist

In incongruous filthy paths,
with pigeons too fat to fly,
I walk and wonder
how my life would have been
if, wandering and wondering,
your life had been

You were not saying a word,
not even begging a cent;
you were simply stating:
I, am, dead. [read more]

Ars Amatoria

This shouting,
with a castrated voice,
a life gone
into rivers of burnt soils,

– and I implore you. [read more]

Oxford Street

There is no memory

But a body shaken
Through nameless streets,
But a brain shattered
By ghostly languages.

To mutter words,
Is the best
One can do.
Words that are remains
Of these monthly days. [read more]


If I could borrow a punch
of naked words
I would tell you,
my friend,
the sand in my hand,
the water around my hips,
and how I was
– almost, about, to be
there. [read  more]