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Written in Hotel des grand hommes, New York.

Visitations by private beguilers, varied in beauty.

None, whom will I palm?


Thinking into the anchoring silence with a view as broad as a rumour.


They are pointing the finger at me

the smoking barrel,

the cracking windshield,

I was going far into the obscenity of a good story

then ending up in a limpid sentence.

Oh, volare!


Their pearls have their own minds,

they say,

‘Fill up your pockets in dignity,

your origin is a safe.’


In a series of images and sensations that only occur during deep sleep

The marble admiral shows me her left breast

it works like a mouth,

the same contraption

that captures honest men.


A vast army of 9 months.



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