Hallucination N°1

I’ve been in the midnight
garden for a while.
A boy wakes up
under a black tree,
a dog latrine.
He pulls on the same hood
of the slave
sentenced to death
by the indifference
of the blind thinkers
and goes back to sleep.
His life has no name.
There is the moon
and the mathematics
of the persian,
he trades his logical madness
among the dustbins.
He wanted to fly gliders,
to slip
into the skin of the wind.
Now all he needs is
an anesthetic
for the perfect day.
Someone kicks
the vending machine
of transcendental
philosophies.
He is tired
of thinking nostalgia.
He’ll steal an idea warmed on
the spot
while they play chess,
atomic stupidity
and future man.
She moves the queen,
he surrenders
following her
under the gazebo,
kneeling down
as she grabs his throat.
She’ll dominate him
until dawn.
Dawn is forbidden
in the garden of midnight,
but he doesn’t know.
I wait for the bus
To take me to the next stop.
There is
no
next stop.

Hallucination N°1

I’ve been in the midnight
garden for a while.
A boy wakes up
under a black tree,
a dog latrine.
He pulls on the same hood
of the slave
sentenced to death
by the indifference
of the blind thinkers
and goes back to sleep.
His life has no name.
There is the moon
and the mathematics
of the persian,
he trades his logical madness
among the dustbins.
He wanted to fly gliders,
to slip
into the skin of the wind.
Now all he needs is
an anesthetic
for the perfect day.
Someone kicks
the vending machine
of transcendental
philosophies.
He is tired
of thinking nostalgia.
He’ll steal an idea warmed on
the spot
while they play chess,
atomic stupidity
and future man.
She moves the queen,
he surrenders
following her
under the gazebo,
kneeling down
as she grabs his throat.
She’ll dominate him
until dawn.
Dawn is forbidden
in the garden of midnight,
but he doesn’t know.
I wait for the bus
To take me to the next stop.
There is
no
next stop.

Hallucination N°1

I’ve been in the midnight
garden for a while.
A boy wakes up
under a black tree,
a dog latrine.
He pulls on the same hood
of the slave
sentenced to death
by the indifference
of the blind thinkers
and goes back to sleep.
His life has no name.
There is the moon
and the mathematics
of the persian,
he trades his logical madness
among the dustbins.
He wanted to fly gliders,
to slip
into the skin of the wind.
Now all he needs is
an anesthetic
for the perfect day.
Someone kicks
the vending machine
of transcendental
philosophies.
He is tired
of thinking nostalgia.
He’ll steal an idea warmed on
the spot
while they play chess,
atomic stupidity
and future man.
She moves the queen,
he surrenders
following her
under the gazebo,
kneeling down
as she grabs his throat.
She’ll dominate him
until dawn.
Dawn is forbidden
in the garden of midnight,
but he doesn’t know.
I wait for the bus
To take me to the next stop.
There is
no
next stop.