A Hen That Couldn't Jump

(a true story that happened to me during my stay in Scotland)

She's always used to be pecked,
Which caused her to become wrecked.
She was different, so to speak,
She didn't care about any other chick,
Nor did the almighty cockerel she obey,
Whom she considered to be a bit gay.
Once upon an autumn lunchtime,
Clucking to herself in a strange rhyme,
She turned her little head at me,
And whispered in a high pitched squeak,
That if only it was to her to control her fate,
There would be no garden gate,
An obstacle she couldn't remove,
Oh, how many things she wanted to improve!
She'd much rather be a subterranean hen,
Living in a cosy underground den,
Lying on her back,
Waiting for a snack,
To jump into her tiny beak,
Becoming a bubble and squeak.
But then came Alice, upset by the hen's weep,
Boy, the girl was moved by the tears deep,
And with her heart soft as a she-mouse's belly,
Opened the gate for the miserable Machiavelli.
The hen just clucked,
In her feathers ducked,
And jumped onto the wall,
Like a cricket ball.
Duh, she's independent, you know,
And doesn't need no help at all.
And that is the end of the story
Of a hen that couldn't jump.

Rapture

three stars
swinging at the eardrums
just to touch your lips
in the eye of a storm
polluted by fake accent
of the innocence brought
by a tidal wave of afterthoughts
of the before before
in such a rain
that makes a man's nostrils thrill
when the ringing in the ear
meant almost nothing
as I ware neither a thyme nor a rose
to you

Stating Poetry

poetry is the letters
into words combined on paper
words into sentences gathered
in mutual congruence
not that much unanimous
the paper lies
face does not

poetry is affinity
of a word to a thought
consciously imposed from above
regardless of the logic
of the world
to have eyes wide open
make the ends meet

poetry is a sound
from the mind to an ear
into a silent room extracted
joining the unagreeable thoughts
loosing a logical sense
boredom kills emotions

so poetry is an uncombed thought
tantologically not obvious
dressed up in elliptical thought
against the physics transitory like gas
in defiance of chemistry adored by itself

patchy, 18, I, love, him

He smiles at me
So bright today
I want to taste his precious lips
Just one more time
I want to bite them so that he screams
I want him to want me
As much as I want him
I want
Though I know

I'm afraid of tomorow
Don't get disappointed he says
I don't know me that well
To promise you a thing
When I'm alone
I revoke his words
And I feel that

I love him
When he's near
I love to love him fast
I love to watch him burn

I want to scream the world
That it's so kind to me
Though I know what pain is
So there I am
Forgetting that
What is sweet ends so fast