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I was born under a black sun

breastfed by thunderstorm


Middays flashed on a blind canvas

A scream of joy chasing a birds swarm


I found eyes for myself on the ground

In the river I caught my tongue


In my name laid

a garden and a song


I didn't grow up, I expanded

An infesting plant, a plague


A figure behind the courtains

was my friend and confidant


I dragged words

in the mouth of a teehless

with a dress train of ashes

shifting stars and boredom


I left like a low tide

roaring the loss


at the ear of a wet shell

moved by its own ghost


The body is political.

The body is an openness without borders.

There is nobody in this body, therefore there is everything. Potential is its name.

All my knowledge are the impressions projected on the surface of the negative paper of the mind. Therefore I know nothing.

I want to let movements teach me again time and space, in and out, here and there.

Only then I can dance.

The body is an openness without borders because you are me and I am nothing.

I am the body of everyone and ultimately of none of them, being this body only identified, categoriesed, numbered, sold and bought as this privileged one which uselessly expires its shelf life in a vain attempt of recalling its truth.

There are bodies and bodies.

But there is only one memory, therefore only one body.

Art must be a radical act of liberation

or not be at all.

The body must be freed from the flow of ink

it has been imposed to swallow through millennia of colonisation.

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What is a body? An attempt to contain the disgust for anything which is out of control

– alive -,

the attempt to make the body a church. Therefore you are the light shining from a dead star.

Liberation is only the last rest of saliva on the tongue of the bourgeoisie. Like painting Guernica over and over again in the vain attempt to get rid of the massacre.

Art must be a radical act

or rather not be at all.

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An inhabitant of my desire

A bird

A sentence

A silent dog

Grain color hair





A hymn

Drunk with a fire in his hand

A spoon of joy

In the face of a walking dead.


The heaven can't stand

the vision of your towers

They will hire cathedrals

to dance on your carpets.

Leave - says the old man.

Stay - says the child -

Let me step on your heart

Let me dance your chrysalis

We will be radiant

We will never die.


I knew the name of


sitting there in the light

in front of the projection surface

to insert content

in thousand rolls of promises

an analog reminiscence of faith.


is carried

out by

a radical act of self-absence

leaving old paths behind

of unparalleled melancholy

and collective memory

He said I am not normal

as if

a word

could say

a heart.

I only later understood

a happiness-machine

has only the

wisdom of boredom.


Thinking for so long it was me
The day revealed

   I was the channel

                         for something else

                                     dreamig or being dreamt

So, as the green showed its real face
the whole fog fell down
As a flower
Opening itself
Beyond all the petals

And more
       And still a bit more.

It's the Arlequine behind the Pierrot

hiding his colors
                               And not viceversa.

What a silet explosion,
to heal.


So they taught me the blind word called trust.

A land of sand in the body of the handless maiden,

that's the house of pain

where creatures go to sleep into rectangles of sunlight,

they rest into golden shapes

before the reaper storms come back at night

in the house of the weeping sun.


This is for the people who have gone before me,

they taught me that the word heart

is not smoke of cigarette losing itself

through the window of a factory in the morning fog,

it is between flesh and other soft things without leaves,

a desert in the body on the hill of ribs

that's the house of trust

the house of the weeping sun.


I go to sleep sometimes curled up

in the house on the hill of ribs

where the handless maiden lives.

If only there would be eyes to see.


Send me a ring

the most bright and fragile

in an avalanche buried

from the river denied


Send me ice

that will last forever

under the sun of doubt

under skies of heaven


Send me the hand

that will keep me warm

under cold blankets

on a frozen trone.

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