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TRAVEL PUSSY

that there was once someone. and my past life when I could still tell you to. with painkillers for our souls in pain and gastritis and those songs that were hang-gliders and kisses and tears and now there are no more '. and the loneliness that was hunted as if in two more 'easy. like when you hide behind the door and you did not scare me bu and that there was always shit. tachycardias with redbull is unlikely that the effect immediately and the coffee 'in an hour you said. and distributors of cigarettes and condoms, and cunt Travel that I never told you but we've got one somewhere still. are perverted by that stuff you said. but I do not believe you. no. do not believe you.

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C'INQUINA

the communicating vessels. our hearts that are poorly sealed radioactive waste and the air of Trento c'inquina. that one day maybe I'll get used to, I say. maybe when I go. and now that I was forgetting the insurance is not liable for damages of life. and sometimes I think we really documentaries like those animals that you never understand if you are killing or if they are making love .*

[quote * vasco brondi]

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low resolution

I want to be an anti-seismic building to survive all'altamarea of \u200b\u200byour attacks. to disarm our hearts defective desperate and disinfect our skies with pens write anywhere that is warmer now. see the sky beyond the ceiling beyond the walls of tears over these low-resolution photographs that you never understand that there is nothing beyond the fog. but for the moment no less cold. is no less cool now.

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like children playing at war

in that bar that we always raining inside and that we have most of our holy festivals. like when you said you had cordoned off the heart and There was a sign with the ongoing work of love and something that you could not understand. asphalt type you my love. I love you with all our air that are now for someone else who have blasphemed sneeze spat on. bitter and what happened to our dreams. our flights diverted. our twenty nomadic orgasms fucking fast in uncomfortable beds we slept in two abbracciatissimi and narrow. and 'now we bray at him. We understand that we do not trample on us we disarm unloved. now that we are about to curse and swear you love someone else. now that we have become great. now. that we have become stupid. now. we play in the massacre. now. like children. now. playing at war.

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WERE BEAUTIFUL PRIVATE

Christ if we were beautiful. on those trains stopped to take breath when they leave us always seemed to go back and then derailed from laughing. with you that you were telling me that the applause was like a slap, slap kind of borderline, and that it looked like a little applause. that our minds even temporarily inaccessible dream of happiness of a hug or an orgasm or a job or freedom to depend on anyone and anything. then life was like a kind of roundabout and there was always someone to take precedence. civil wars in our hearts. media public break up with kisses. to scratch with the piercing. a twist to jammed to bother. we were just beautiful. as saints stray and alcoholics. beautiful. Christ if we were beautiful.

(thanks to Susanna Ronconi for her "beautiful were the same )

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A HUGE COLD

then suddenly that he always did a horrible cold that did not seem to ever get the time of the thaw. we wanted to see the sun and swallow dishes on the streets and restored for the next day. but in the end it was always raining and we were not late enough for our conversation. that demoralized the streets. which deteriorated rapidly. our conditions. our beliefs. and the disappointment of our families. loneliness. the chagrin of passersby. vomiting that often desecrated poems and insults did not understand. then suddenly it was cold again . but a huge cold. in my head and my heart and veins that you were asleep already and as always, do not fucking.

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I'll bring 'AWAY

our five-star heaven watching us and we become adults abused. that disrespect the safety distance and I in human relationships. twenty years and have kind of unconsciousness necessary to dream of growing old in the arms of Berlin and then frozen. newspaper that no one ever talks about us and our despair of our clandestine love of our failures. and tomorrow I'll take your far away. discomfort from the disasters of floods and earthquakes. relational. to rebuild all of us. and die. before returning to be Catholic.