La Bete Humaine

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Yesterday he almost got crushed
a delicate matter.
lay hidden deep within him.
I’ve never loved anyone but you.
It’ll be the death of me, I know it.

The waves of despair that had you
All because of a ring
I get so miserable I can’t even speak.
The leaves uncurling in the spring
Stabbed to death.

I loved her little hands
I think they’re questioning
the same grief and sorrow.
What a sorry affair.
weighed heavily upon him.

You remember those innocent walks
You made up a whole story about it.
Are you saying
Hello, stranger.
when we loved each other

Put my hammer in the smoke box.
my disappointments, my hopes.
But that woman
and the others.
Darling, you have no idea.

I’ve loved you for some time now.
for some embroidery.
Is tender and sweet
Waves of grief.
Your symptoms

My hands are all black now.
and drifting to the ground in autumn.
You’ve put up new curtains.
520 tons.
But not love.

My childhood was so horrible.
Thief.
who poisoned my blood
My locomotive.
Our train.

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La Sapienza

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she’d never cheat on her husband.
bridges to link lonely banks.
severe bouts of melancholy.
like a ghost.
A hospital.

he was beaten to death in the street.
while looking at a star.
Being born is a heavy load.
until, via an inescapable trajectory…
I lost my youngest son.

But I sensed he was wounded inside.
The shadow looming over you.
a little wood.
Every language is a mystery.
On a fragment of stone,

This place is too full of memories.
to destroy something or someone,
Because her life has no meaning.
Wasting sickness
Yet she is unhappy.

Here, in the intimacy of the cloister,
Let’s lock ourselves up in the dark.
in a spiral staircase.
Still weak, but that’s normal.
for you are loved.

Spaces are nothing but emptiness.
psychology and psychoanalysis,
just one of my dizzy spells.
we recognized two known words.
My husband.

The image on the shroud is a negative.
But the past still torments her,
It’s a circle.
are chance encounters.
like a disease.

Finally, we reach God’s space,
I neglected the light.
He drank.
He says he came
to transform

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Army of Shadows

army

Love has meaning for me
I once laid
I’d want to be killed.
ESSAY ON THE PROBLEM OF THE
of condemned men.

your transmissions.
the walls with explosives.
You can suffocate.
her real identity
our game before lights out.

The walls are paper-thin.
Those are the givens
nothing but memories.
It’s a cone-shaped container
After you’re gone.

The Catholic teacher
without a sound, as usual.
Do it the right way.
like a frightened animal.
Nothing’s sacred anymore.

a safer spot.
to swallow his cyanide capsule
See to your arm and thigh.
whom I still love,
We always confide

The cellar connects
Nothing at all.
You’ll find a razor on the table.
TRANSFINITE AND CONTINUUM
Memorize it.

and unable to commit suicide.
I store up heat.
You know her memory.
Traveling salesman.
NO ADMITTANCE

His wishes came true
died one night
In the shooting range,
To each his own troubles.
Nothing in writing.

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Grass Labyrinth

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Your mother is near you.
crossing oceans
With a red ribbon in her hair,
and hangs a woman’s soul
one, two, three years
In any case, like a bird in a cage.
moonlit evening,
She committed suicide

her husband raped.
destined to marry.
Leaving your body behind,
In her hand mirror,
She sent me a lot of love poems.
closes the door
She is a nymphomaniac,
One a lacquered box,

Peonies, lilies, poppies.
you disappear right in front of me.
Darkness fell in front of
Mom.
Well, I’m at a loss.
You…
Please sing.
nothing new in the world.

Please, please remember.
You will remain my son forever.
the graveyard.
besides me.
for over a month.
those songs.
Her dead body was swept
and runs away from her.

floats something round.
After that, just the melody.
It’s that song.
While waiting for the man,
Searching for
That’s all I remember.
I have no mother.
upon the shore.

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Three Times

threetimes

She wrote to me
It’s still vivid, like a bird
So celebrate when you feel
the tears of the oppressed
Your mother told me
I think of you, I think of you
more than you love me

One poem read…
Fractured bones, a hole in the heart
It’s because their sad cries…
A TIME FOR LOVE
and then come back north
Epilepsy, almost blind
Please open your eyes

Why do seabirds wake me from my dream?
the keeping of concubines
Taipei Medical University Hospital
She left days ago
I couldn’t help shedding tears
The photos.
when you’re honest to yourself

ONE MONTH LATER
My name is May
for marriage…
…pierce my heart
…and sink it that way
With all that has passed
May rest, such cruel sound

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The Idiots

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spin the bottle
Is A Religion
the very heavens shine down upon us.
She was right when she said
lost their little boy.
who has such lovely eyes
their skulls and gas them.
Every day for fifty years.

something to do with the family.
wonderful things we’ve shared.
A tired group.
A bloody mess.
Gang bang.
Deep breaths.
Lots of flags
“Les Fleurs du Mal”, 1944.

I love you.
even if it’s provisional.
Your lies are pouring out
He likes them.
All this sentimental crap
I’ve heard 17 different versions.
of every hole in your body.
BYE, Sugar.

I’ve chosen the right words.
liberated and unprejudiced,
There is one little minus.
really, really awful for you.
Not so hard.
CHILD’S FOOD
Look, you’re floating
I’m sorry I couldn’t come to

and out of the bloody lake.
That tiny bit of paper
Sulked sulking
When she slips off the hook
The black on the left.
tied me to a decent bed.
I know sod all about knots.
Round the damned palm

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Voyage in Time

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What are your most enduring images
as if the wind had blown away
Sentimental.
an iron ball to hoId
It was a circle with some volume.
sadness and loneliness…
tragedy, happiness,
with a dim light.

they love each other,
scattered here and there.
Proportions…
in cinema always indicates
whether it is fog or flowers.
an extraordinary white floor,
The atmosphere of mystery,
sets his wife on fire

It’s the Biblical concept.
about someone…
that was made in memory
wave has thrown out on the shore,
It’s aII in the altars
Indian, Persian, Egyptian,
Dry soil makes a noise
That imprisons whoever passes by

There is so much dust.
In memory of such a poetic story,
The mute movie.
Most regrettable is one scene
their feelings…
Is so light that cannot be kept in
where the grave was.
(continues poem in dialect)

Robert Bresson.
feII madIy in love.
Then it’s a cage
When the wheat blooms,
some rose leaves.
Then, with great pleasure
steam rises in the mornings…
is very paradox and poetic.

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