Poems

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for every day of loneliness we should get an extra day to live

we would live so long that we would possibly become immortal

today the sky looks like the seafoam

small waves under soft caramel sweater under small rains under small shelters

for all the streets with all the memories

I put rouge cinema on my nails

the ring that a beautiful woman with herbs eyes created for me when I launched my first book

taking few pictures, searching sophie calle, buy her and another six books, a piece of greek cheese, grape leaves

I found a small bistro

where I could have french fries and four fingers of marsala

watching the birds in the marble light

but of course, it’s appropriate

to keep the mouth closed

If your heart is in.

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while the snow dresses the trees with an old woman’s hair

washing mine

in shells spirals

in the bus stops, in your wrinkled hands, in that now

that is nowhere

I remember

my bones rattled

and my sadness like the risky desire wanted to be touched

entering and dominating

as well as my upper lip freshly pinched

while the snow dresses the trees with an old woman’s hair

I bought this dusty blue dress

thinking I’m buying

few mornings for us

few days in venice (maybe) or where the cherries hang fleshy in the woods

(can we do that?)

just to rode your back

with my hazel eyes

each of us with his own seclusion & lies

telling you: baby, we are bad tv series

of course it’s useful

to make life a dress

of course for wear it

must the spring come

but the bloom will always burn

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inspired by Roland Barthes, a man I would have seen myself going out with, I played like he played with his little vignettes in his autobiography.

I like: the smell of frozen laundry, wearing masculine suits, no fuss things, Cave, dark chocolate with crunchy particles of pink salt, mid-century furniture, the intimacy of kenne gregoire, autofiction novels, italian music of 70’s, watching the boats sailing in the morning in hydra, berlin cabaret, exploring individual vulnerabilities, baritonal voices, bedroom eyes make-up, Malher, S. Barber, the imperfect teeth, thyme, Florence, oxypetalum, black and white victorian floor, touch on the back of the neck, pointless messages, Pina Bausch, dim lights, red lights, nights walks, words, Sol le Witt, prominent noses (both: women & men), lamps, Cohen’s poetry, gabardine, navy blue shade, conceptual art, homemade strawberry mousse, to give meaning where there is none, dancing, self-irony, diphthong, belly-buttons, keyboards, handwriting notes, shell-shaped objects, belgian butter & honey & white bread, Beckett, sailor caps, white damask linens, petrosin smell, flirting, velvet jackets, God, pop-up picnics in two in the park, terns, blonde wigs, Deauville sea, cold, to read notes written by great artists from the time when they didn’t know would become artists


I don’t like: operetta, long nails, people with certainties, satin & lace, the saxophone, stubborn people, Asia, America, the sanctioning attitudes, stilettos, high-pitched voices, to be up to date with the newest books & movies, motivational ideas, bridal parties, groups of families at the barbecue, veil, early adopters, summer, society modern updates, travels through the plains, opportunists, organized people, socialites, all wine except Xerex, making new friends, great talkers, grapes, Sundays, tight bespoke suits worn by men, lies, commitments,


I can’t eat snails because I love snails and I save them from the road. that doesn’t make me a good person. does the fact that I eat pork, beef, sheep means that I don’t love them? I love cats, for example, but that’s not the reason why I don’t eat them. Am I a savior or an indirect accomplice to murder?
it’s the same with what I like and what I don’t like. nothing makes me better or worse person, but only different, as each of us is. my body has needs, my mind has other needs. they are not always the same. then I listen to the most intense one. that’s why it doesn’t matter what we like or we don’t like. even acceptance is not important. let’s be who we are and that’s enough.

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