the sparrow is blessed, says the quarantined priest, waiting for the moth
john doe is mummified and relieved, dancing on the severed wing of a nightingale
the painting is born in the palm of a maid, swirling like a toad, the paintbrush collapses in an epileptic fit, hitting the ground
to the sound of horses pounding the sky
to the sound of midgets hung on rainbows
to the sound of unicorns and shadows
to the sound of crucified clowns and memorial winos
the bottle is as thin as a kiss, the silken glass bears the reminiscence of a darkened piano
liquefied into a sequel
the dusk is soft and crippled by the summer rain
it will surely transform into a mirror
as all sunburned peepholes do, one after another in an endless row of garments and columns
literally ripped apart by the shrewd Mediterranean storm, but intact in the end … just like a cruel puppet
in a lethargic posture