Here we are,
you, Tiresias of hippy disco punk and rap birds,
and I, a former Communist Pythia,
prophetess of mirroring insights
and all sort of bubbles of this world.
Here we are in a blind, deaf and mute Babel Tower,
like monkeys with three brains in the stomach.
You, Tiresias, have voyaged millions of heavens underground,
I, Pythia, between deep and long tongues,
both of us eroding elusive kingdoms.
Here we are like icebergs surviving in the house of blood.
Like tunnels delivering lethal injections.
The light is struggling for its brightness,
the dark is the power of the void
and the human being just needs oxygen to dream more.
Still alive. We are still alive.
Swimming in the hangman’s eyes,
having faith in the spider,
being exorcists of sorrow repentance.
This is what we feel. What we touch. What we die.
Caressing nerves of the afternoon and moonlight together,
learning to go straight into the soul’s gap,
deep inside there is the shape of a coma and a frozen wonder.
There is a secret infection with a burning snake.
Twirl around me, Tiresias, and I will twirl around you,
changing emptiness in the whisper of a curling mind.
We are in here,
in the big circus with real windows and doors
where nothing and all can be healed.
We are in an invisible howl
in a cave for witnessing glamour,
a collapse throwing ashes of velvet.
Black out.
The numb ones are diving in a ghost memory,
the happy ones are searching for a missing birth,
the metropolis is just the filthy map of a devastated clown
juggling with his fingers like fishes jumping in the air.
A lost battle. Black out.
Can we survive the rainbow’s slavery?
Can we go naked until the brain’s skin starts shivering?
Can we say for sure that a knife is a sort of  God
killing himself just for fun?
Can we remember the feared paradise?
Or the spicy death which is a young dog hurting another dog?
Today your destiny, Tiresias, is of a monk going nowhere.
Mine as absent Pythia is to be a shroud for nobody’s outside.
Maybe we need to drink a special wine,
a very red toreador.
Maybe we can see fury as a large room for seducers.
The end of the end is a yellow taxi with Brahman drivers.
The storytellers can be saviors only with a gasoline kiss.
I would like to sleep near your priceless skeleton, my Tiresias,
shadowing the metropolis
just to register the fingerprints of despair.
Just to be stubborn in a place without saints.
Madness is a strange tapestry,
a lace for the razors of the brain.
Paranoid predators are climbing the walls of an asylum
and the signs of illumination cannot be whistled.
Chaos is a ballet for the regrets of God.
What I want is to feel. To live.
To execute my darkness.
To be my own landscape and fire.
To be flesh and blood.
Up our hearts! Up!
I feel the truth like a cage for thunder
and hell like a bone in my neck.
Only together can we deepen the hole to its upright position.
Black out.
Miracles and wonders are crippled
and butterflies are just eaten by an electric wind coming from nowhere.
The fur of our sins is a little bit shiny.
Carnivorous brides are descending in zig-zag from skyscrapers
searching for a nomad redemption.
My words are sweet pains.
They are bulimics.
My words are not prophecies, but lunatic laws.
I am a fluid Pythia over a solid Tiresias,
scratching the dusk of our future past death.
At sunset I am overwhelmed by a human memory
and by the resurrection I’m not believing anymore.
Here we are in the metropolis,
at the borderlines of frailty
at the crossroads of a sick mouth biting.
No eagle, no silk.
Just biting without glory.