Blind eyes could blaze like meteors

When I know I will not sleep, I spread
my hair all over the pillow
like a crown
or a flower field.

Slowly, I think insistently
and with strict assiduous order
in all the things that make me feel horrible
and that make me cry.

When the time comes,
I put my fingers on the lashes,
fondly
I recognize the sticky feel,
I think
how wonderful it may would be
if I could not open my eyes tomorrow.

Walk in darkness, ignore
if you feel sad for what I did,
take a break from you
and from the world.

And when I finally fall asleep,
it always happens
that I confuse
—are they not the same?—
the sweetness of weariness
with the sweetness of death.

A poem from Your Suprasternal Notch

How would Oggg love you?

I think of you like people think about their dead
I would be happier if I knew for certain that you know I have not forgotten
Sometimes I have to suppress the urge to run away from home and buy flowers
Sometimes I have to suppress the urge to print your photos and create an album that reads
February 2009 you smiling before you die
My mind returns repeatedly to the same memories
I am tormented by the idea of ​​forgetting things without realizing it
I am comforted by the idea of ​​ someday being able to remember something for the first time
and to witness again a ridiculously transcendent event of your life
Sometimes I talk to your little brother because he looks a lot like you
I like to see him grow and compare your bodies and physiognomies
I am slightly annoyed by the fact that he is taller than you
I am slightly annoyed by the fact that he is even more handsome than you
I am sincerely disturbed by the fact that your eyes express different genotypes
I am sincerely disturbed by the fact that your hearts express distinct genotypes
I google the words help how to resurrect the one you loved
I do not sleep and I think of what your perfect epitaph would be if I could write it
I have occasionally imagined your stabbed body in the middle of the forest
I have occasionally imagined that it was cold and that your blood was like a hot river born of your chest staining your shirt and staining my hands
And then I lean your body against a tree
And I begin to cry
of the indescribable joy that comes from seeing you die
by my side.

Another secret.

You see me arriving
you laugh
say hello
comment how bad my hair looks but how good I let my beard grow
and it seems it was yesterday when we met
and that four hundred days have not passed
since the last time I was in this same place
looking at you in this same way.
You ask if I still smoke
I nod
I would say you sadden
maybe
because of that secret fear you have
of me dying.

Secret.

I imagine you here,
under this tree
and I think that you'd be lovely.
I could even kiss you
if the circumstances were favorable
if you smiled at me a certain way
if you held my gaze
for a moment.
I would go to you then,
move the branches and leaves
from your face,
the hair tangled
in some twig
and afterwards
I would do what I already did ten years ago
in a tree like this
to someone named like you
that had your eyes
and had your hands.

As a child I had a tree.

And the tree had a name and I stroked its trunk.

I hugged it while I watched the ants running up and down its bark.

And I was jealous of the ants for being parasitic on my tree.

Mother.

It is night. We do not know if the little girl sleeps. The blind is not completely lowered and some of the light from the streetlamps comes through the window. There is another light. The one that seeps through the crack under the door. You can hear the mother in the kitchen. A tap is turned on.

The girl calls.

The mother goes.

I'm cold, she says.

There are blankets in the closet.

The mother does not move.

The girl rests her face in the pillow.

Silence.

We, those from the outside, wonder why the mother, the same one that closed the door so that the light did not bother the girl, the same that goes when the daughter calls her, does not tuck her daughter in, does not traverse the space to the closet door and does not open it, does not bend over to pick up one of the blankets stacked against the background, does not unfold it and lay it on the cold body of the girl.

Big men have big dreams

You want to live in a big city
work for a big company
and earn lots of money
to spend in your big big city
or in you PP girl
(Perfectly Pretty)

You want to travel the world
and visit even bigger cities
to spend even bigger amounts of money
to please your PP girl

You want to make your mother cry
everytime you step into a plane and cross the sea
to live in a big city
to work for a big company
to meet your PP girl
without even looking back
without even realising
it is not your mother the only one that cries.