ulianov

There is no present
your hands your thoughts
you looting
every speck of the experience-world
scrambling for a synthetic time
where there is dynamic stagnation
that you would call
an I
an I
is but an habit
a residual pastime,
look at the following

moment

and the following

moment

there are mirrors of reflection
(where you think you exist because you thought it)
there are...
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To become an I
is to enshrine
yourself as a prey
in the home of the prayer
get your money
but get out
of this world
simmering with catastrophes
or your eros-driven page
will choke and choke
in the claws
of the undead God
that is waiting you
on the threshold
where the Unthought
crazily opens its mouth

and vomits

earthquakes
refugees
state-collapse
resoruces shortages...
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Clouds believe

In the open cracks

Of the earth:

Promises

Of unbinded clasps

Heart indeed

Freaks out

At the eyes of the sky:

Harking back

To the vast horizons

Of feelings

Rioting in its

Grinding matter

Chaotic shatter

But

When our eyes

Meet in a glance

I sink in a sinking matter

Falling

In a ground of clouds

Sliding

In a foggy, sultry world

Where...
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Si rabbuia il capillare

L'ombra densa stringe

Il tuo estremo testuale

Glassa strozza e cuce

Un'altra parola ancora

Hai da chiedere

Hai da inanellare

E preghiera

E rosario

Diventa la pratica

Del nostro confabulare

Tutte le grammatiche

Da te messe in fila

Per ben benino

Il metodo metodico

Smitizzante e oracolare

E se invece

E se d'altrocanto

E se altrove

Spaccassimo il retroasse

Che puntella...
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Il pensiero si ritrae

poi ritorna

storto e addensato

pompa sangue il mondo

l'aria, le foglie,

la grata occlusa di memorie

sotto al costato

che affatica, allunga, strappa

e il pensiero ritorto

ritorna e smunge il mio occhio

l'immagine imperitura immensa

viene verso

l'epidermide

e si fa epigramma di vene e capillari

non stringo nulla

rincorro un paio di parole

farsi gemiti, intimità assopita

e...
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Ecco che il fuoco

si fa lamelle di sugo

rosso ocra verde

smorto

scema gioca

non troppo presto!

prima di morire

traccia una vena

rosso scuro

sulla finestra

giallo palude, i resti

di un sole pianto

sul vetro di maggio:

la vena disegna dei sentieri

da provare

e si assottiglia in mille direzioni,

un tempo era macchia spessa

compatta e scura

tagliava al sole la...
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A speck of rusty foolishness

and

A nasty rack

of yellow restiness

fall down

in the evening of your skin

a pale dimming tin

drowning

in that night

at Columbine,

the atomic bomb

far far away

detonating

as if the world could speak

of nothing more

even though the silence

was breaking its door,

so you went up

and in your sleepy flamboyant rush

you...
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May is the eyes of Spring

Blooming

Through the death of April

The booming Queen

Of the four-season grin,

A long smile,

That cut a year in pieces:

The apex of life

The apex of death

(Such a trivial dull thing to say

Such a naive burlesque),

But wait

What if the fading of April

Was an opening

A window

A link

Just like the...
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Thus you spent.

richly consuming your ropes,

tightly tiyng triple

expectations

of finding art, machines and

elucubration

of mingling moons

around a neck of

fading pixels.

Thus you escape.

Maximum jailbreak

to your lonely mistress

from this lonely fitness

of well-arranged aesthetics.

And to the crow I throw the sky

its lingering looming lullabies

tattoos and lives.

I spent the night under the hills,

now...
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Accelerating through faster chains

Of signs

Displaying the black translucent egg

Striking and rampaging

Out of you model-body

Vibrating surface of artistry

Of millions of aspirations

Sucking up tones of

Lurching lust lacking everything

From smell to sense

From glee to sin,

Only dust made out of money

And parking lots

An audience of ferocious parking lots

Looking for the translucent egg

Of your attention...
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What if the world (as Mainlander states) is the corpse of God ever-expanding and every little orgasm, along with commodification, subjectivities and information, accelerate a piece of tissue in its journey far away from God. So that a plurality of acts of enjoyment and jouissance are nothing more than a cloud of dead sensations spinning to the void again in the again, while the expanding...
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Why I am no pixel

Nor image

To stick through

To overcum

All the parade of desires

Trembling, sucking

Oozing from holes

And thighs and souls

And ONLYFANS

Instead I am only

A semiotic driving cock

A residual organism

That dreams the fusion

With the machine.

Let’s get lost!

In the sewing network

Of supports of links

A loopsided feedback,

The slow muscle grow

Not...
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