Law of attraction 

Of a neon glow

Traveling throug a space-tunneled gullet

Into a bloated starry sky

Where to each eye

Her own reality.
Billions of stars looking down from the sky.

Billions of eyes looking up to the sky.


Because she is never stationary

And always moving about like Van Gogh’s winds

Whenever I stretch out my finger into the cold dark night

She stretches in a great cosmic yawn

To caress my arms

Until we melt in our atomic marriage

Of neither star

Nor human.




There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               


I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 


Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon

As I must grow old 

And wilt

With the laws of gravity;

The horror is surreal

Of balding the moon off her throne

Into the sterile. 

How is that they must define us as a lack 

And in the same breath

Call the lands which could not bear the life

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass. 

Set of words 

Let me read you
 the opposite of poetry.

I pull out a letter knife 
And toy with red-lettered words
Till I no longer have a thirst for the apple juice
Or the Antarctic sky.

Whatever comes up
The blood or blues
I gulp it down with white wine
Until my feet are cold, enough for sleep,
I dream 

And then I weep in poetry. 

Head of gold


I forget poetry.

The lover in the sky consumed by the city fumes,

I forget poetry and then I forget myself.


Why do their faces fill up with boring operas

Announced like an airport flight, I fly

Like a man inside a coral,

There is no end to how we will feel,

For how many we will feel.


In his face a mirror,

There you will see a self, performed—a mere body of naught

Strangled with wish-locks of what I want to be.

Nude him of desires, can you love a skull?

To love not to be loved.


Once upon a gentle day,

There blows the breeze sweeping away false candour

And I am here lying awake upon the moon,

Once again throwing out poetry for you to catch, revived,

As if all their workers paid, the union sigh,

In me lay tipped, several glasses full.


I see a face.

I see a bony man when the night is full.


Round off

When you will touch the face of my coffee cup,

You will find it as hot as my eyelids

Steaming with the coal-churning factory.


I push my left eye back into her cave

And the workmen brim up with coal

Grinning nihilistically, I savour the numb

Off upon the afternoon breeze;

It is like falling off the wagon in a noonish nap.


My muscles lisp.

I crunch upon the devil’s shoe like an autumn leaf

And I free horses in the wild, wild corporate-shunned woods.


These factories that are precise spaces;

Poets from different ages break upon its machinery

Till it will turn blue holding out breath,

Like a fish in a noodle bowl, leaps

—in a sound midnight dream.


Here this was my attempt,

Some may choose to call it inactivity or debt.

But the coals slide off the eye-cliff until dayfall,

And then

classroom-envy will cease hold.


I refrigerate my coffee and wait for night to chirrup.


Desert snakes


Let it not rattle like a cup
Slipping out on your
Tabby cat
No longer smiling;
Such is the crowd of madness

I sit in a room full of porcelain,
A spider whiffs
And the whole room is awake
With people who speed past you
Like horrid torrents
Up for gold in athletics.

Say what is your worth?
I am sold solid in the squalid markets,
I reek of myself
And earthen dust
Out of which I now
unmake myself
And so, sandcastles do not rust.

Children of the mind


Come close
Come closer,
No more.

Do you know when they opened up the children’s park,
they had a war
with little children running in circles–
trick’o treat!
Do you know,
I have those little children
Running over my forehead
bleeding away

What a Syrian war–
trick’o treat!

I usually write slow songs
Otherwise my fingers pluck themselves away
And I’ve to look for them over the ceilings

‘Ugh you are so dramatic!’

Bang Bang I go
into the moon
my hands fly, so does my words
Vis-a-vis my temple,
where little–
monstrous children play,
the writer and his muse.