and to love but what is enigma?
What's in the world beneath the cold green sky and really worth the effort?
A lot of yellow books are nothing Nietzsche's body
and squares of Torino
and buildings with darker arches
my navel and towers infinite and finite my attempts to be myth.
And always behind a brick wall a locomotive passing
leaving the smoke which forms the face of my father
and Volos ship sails always
sea and sings its way the song of my mother ...
We're just mannequins made with fragments fragments
Narciso, Laius and Jocasta.
In the shadow of a man under the sun is
more enigmas than in all religions
is real and the unreal are coexisting clocks pins of rub
impenetrable solitude and melancholy over a rock
silent distances as hooks thrown in a lake of parquet
where fish are thirsty rather than hungry.
And there are wars and there are exiles
blood and a wall dividing Europe
blood and forgotten painting in Montparnasse. I
zinc glove stuck in a door of Ferrara
sending envelopes with locks of hair so they know I'm alive,
alive and holding my head on the thighs of the disquieting muses.
A knot of perspectives and a claustrophobic
signs are the conquest of the philosopher and almost anything else, perhaps
canyon high noon or my sex exposed on a platform,
and artichokes my dream and open a door to my right
and all single and looking
without decoding the mystery that hides the angle of the tiles.
I was a soldier and was an enemy of modern dictatorship
surrealist and neoclassical
lover Ariadne and Dionysus
and the signature of my self-portrait dressed and went
costume and the naked man beneath
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