wasn’t caravaggio caught by the highest fevers
in his delirium preceding his death
or pasolini beaten to pieces
in the heat of his blood shivers of pain
the more you crash against life
sometimes you can reap
a word a stroke the one distinguishing you
with that brush in your hand a keyboard a pencil
stunning are the times in which you rest
your eyes wide fixed on nothingness in which you are immersed
liquid-blue-green transparent yellow light almost amniotic
mimetic symbiotic symbolic of what
deprived of caffeine the usual amount of nicotine & smog
your body revives
i remember now, how the same sweat was beneficial
with a cigarette in my mouth and a pot of coffee on the table
bolzano, 5 pm
anny ballardini
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