laughter

laughter dies but is never dead
laughter lies outside the back of its head
laughter laughs at what is never said
it trills and squeals and swills in your head
it trills and squeals in the heads of the dead
and so all the lives remain laughing instead
sucked in by the laughter of the severed head
sucked in by the mouths of the laughing dead

reading

to read poetry is essentially to daydream

poetry lost...

...and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.

revolution?

to create is to resist.

solitude

how happy the child who really possesses his moments of solitude.

poetics

an artist does not create the way he lives, he lives the way he creates

Federico García Lorca

Then I realised I had been murdered
They looked for me in cafes, cemeteries and churches ....
but they did not find me.
They never found me?
No. They never found me.