mercoledì 19 dicembre 2012

The Seed of Sunflower

 The seed of The Sunflower
 The seed of The Sunflower 

Try not to look behind,  listen to the moving voice - and sunny -

of the black patched neighbor's dog.

It prays for me,

it prays for me, all the prayers of the street, in the night. And the forest
begins to speak in low, and like a the soundchek of the 
coffee-mist temperature - making circles 
in my mine.

My prayers, I am a bishop on a tree of light
no sword of mine. No sword

Try not -  Try not - Please do try, do it: Love!
Love Do! You are poor and militant,
 and gentle and the

fan hisses in the room 
You, on the Passover, You on the theatre of silver
and purple swans of white, and

abandon me, lately.

Few salt in my mirror's  thoughts, my poverty for a mirror
my poverty for a mirror.

Not like an angel, not like an angel. 
Not Like an angel.                                                                                          



Me is mostly like a

flower, me is blossom - unintended, like the birth of
the young Buddah, and the old woman in red - a rhapsody - brings her rotten bed around 
the world, and her little oven for
coocking her bread like a franch woman would
I'm the Fool, I'm The saint -
she Says.

Cheating, screaming, shouting, crying and loving
Why can't do the same? Why should I blame me.

I'm a free number.


In the scent - new - of growing

sunflowers, I is lazy, and shamy - the sunflowers, too
I see them, I listen to them, in the pouring
fog of the morn -

the History. Yawning for nobody, yawning for
nothing but themselves.

Do love. Do love Sayes the sunflower. Do it now, nothing more. Nothing else.
Do Love. Say: Loving, look, how small is the
word - love.
Beloved of my make-belive - an apple from the tree of insanity.
Poetry it means having a beer
with folks of yours.


Poetry means the bear of  the beginning river, Poetry is  a stone: throw it! The
Jordan is endless. And Poetry means a table - a word hard
to pronunce - on which you


open you sex and wine of apricots, so unkind,
made in years
of cold & gold, but i'm fixing my
drink on my own,

up now

Poetry means You, and your eyes wide shut in the dark, wide in the krad
It means you. And I, laying on the garden
of the Sunday in Babilon,

after have been leaving so long. Poetry is the name of The Lord.
And I Have No Name.

The ear-rings
swing from your ears like dancing dancers on the dividers,
made in wind - wild - no questions please,

I'm living! Let me taste your kiss!
Saints of the Mule!

See the light, follow the light. Be the light! Be! The shadow of the
sunflowers on the wall of paper in my parent's coutyard.

The dancer in my jungle. The dancer
In my jungle.

Elia, Michele Belculfinè
Jweq8, 19 Dic  '12 

The Syd Of MoonFlowers,
(mentre si legge il testo della poesia)

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