someone is always helping us
the thought that he does not exist
cuts deep our senses like a razor’s blade
handled by a Parkinsonian patient

the heart does not beat in vain
a rusted piston which has not enough lubricant to make it run better
to make it more useful

the heart manufactures the scare
although fear simply does not exist
it is just a state similar to the exaltation
it is the lack of control over the hysteria with which
we sometimes watch an informal mass of
brains crushed on the asphalt after an accident

the mad speed and the beat of the century
do not urge us to disobey ourselves
it is only the unexpected sensuality
we are using to invent and taste the daily atrocity

of course, the city lights falling onto our skulls
amplify the tormenting sensation equal to
the panic of the artist before the audience
as the CD reader runs down
in the middle of the live concert

this makes us smile foolishly :
another day and the brick destined to hit our heads
has avoided us

we only say there is enough time for that
and step over shadows of walls
with elegance and sweet resignation