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Elegy for Neal Cassady

Ok Neal ethereal Spirit

shining like the air that moves

blue as dawn city

happy day as the light emanating from the new town houses

Gigantic brick Maya arise

rebuilt in the Lower East Side

windows shining in the milky smog.

Appearance not necessary now.

Peter (sleeps alone in the room next door, sad.'re Reincarnated? Can you hear me talking?

If ever any man had the strength to hear the invisible, is guided through the wall of the Maya

you were to have her
What
What are you now, Spirit?

spirit in the body were

body is cremated beside the railway track



Desert San Miguel Allende,

out of town,

Spirit become spirit,

robot or reduced to ashes.

Tender Spirit, thank you for keeping touch with his hands when you were young, in a beautiful body,

A touch so pure it was beyond hope a flesh and Maya, what are you now,

impersonal, tender

show me your muscles / heat / over twenty years ago when I lay shivering on your chest to put your

arm around my neck,

- We were in a room together naked in the 103rd Street listening to a Radio wooden

eyes closed

red Lord of Shabda

flashed into our brains to Illinois Jacquet's saxophone quivering,

Cornetta's prophetic Louis Jordan,

Honeydrippers Open The Door Richard Revelation of Christ

The houses are without substance

This is the My Vision of New York outside the offices

apartments to the east where the phone rang last night and a friendly

unfamiliar voice asked me to Denver, I had the news from the West?

A mass arrests, Eugene Oregon Hollywood incumbent or I had a premonition.

"No," I said "I was been away all week," you did not get the news from the West,

Neal Cassady is dead "

Oh! voice of a dove of Peter on the other line, listening.

Your cheerful still photography, dramatic, tense,

a candle burning, incense stick

green gods of the house. The Tyranny reaches Military University, Prophecy your

approaching his pious gentle sense leads us

Down

the awakening of the Great Year.

Kesey in Oregon is writing a novel language

family farm alone.

had nothing else to do? Had you done all your work? Had you seen your first child?

Why you left us all here?

And the battle was won?

am a ghost skeleton with teeth, skull resting on a pillow



to invoke your spirit echo of God consciousness, muttering to myself

sad.

Lamento dawn unnecessary

the world is freed, desire fulfilled, your story's over,

story told, Karma resolved, prayers

made clear vision, heard new awareness, the spirit back in a circle,

world left empty buses rumbling through the streets

immodizia scattered in profusion Splendor in the streets

solidified, the fate of ghost-family

returned at dawn-Auto,

your fate fell on the railway tracks

my body breathes light

lie alone



After experiencing friendship vanished forms

heavy carnal happiness is suspended in the middle, I could talk

Forever,

Pleasure inexhaustible discourse of spirit to spirit,

O Spirit.

Spirit Lord, forgive my sins,

spiriro Lord Give me your blessing, Lord

forgiving spirit ghost demands of my body, spirit

Lord thank you for your past kindness, ..

spirit Lord in Heaven, What difference did your mortal form, What more than this great exhibition space? Quick passions of generations of

Question? Guided anguished night in Texas?

psychedelic bus hegira talk

Poems green car, inspired by the streets?

Sad, Jack Lowell saw more than all the ghost

longer just about everything except your noble self.

Lord Spirit, they are driven only:

Oh sigh.

February 10, 1968

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Dance in F sharp minor

Today (indeed, given the time it would be more correct to say tonight) I propose to you a beautiful song by a great Italian artist : Angelo Branduardi . The song "Dance in F sharp minor" opens the album "The Water flea" (1977).
"Dance in F sharp minor," a theme of the composer George Mainerio entitled Schiarazula Marazul the sixteenth century. The text, which, as my usual, provided at the bottom, was co-written by Luisa Zappa (wife of Branduardi).
Good Listening!

I am death and port crown
I am of you all mistress
and so are cruel, are so strong and lasts
I do not stop your walls.

I am death and port crown
I am of you all mistress
and sickle in front of my head you'll have to bow
death and darkness to pass go.

You're the guest of honor at the ball that we play for you,
puts the sickle and dance round and round:
around a dance and then another and you
time you are no longer Mrs.

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Christmas

I do not want to dive

in a ball of roads


I'm so tired

shoulders

Let it
as a
what

placed in a corner

and forgotten

Here
not feel
other
the heat I'm good


with the four
somersaults
smoke
hearth

Giuseppe Ungaretti

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Mother

Today I propose a concept-album track from The Wall (1979) of Pink Floyd: Mother.
The Wall, despite the disappointment that aroused in the epilogue of fans and critics of the group, had a remarkable success establishing itself as one of the cornerstones of rock music and finishing 87th place in the list of the 500 greatest albums according to the magazine " Rolling Stone."

The album tells the story of Pink (partly inspired by the life of Roger Waters and a few nods to the life of the leader Town Group: Syd Barrett) , which, due to a difficult life and dotted with some tragic events (like the death of his father in the war while he was still in diapers) ends up closing in upon itself, and also helped by obsessive protection of his mother, to erect a psychological wall between him and the world, to protect it from it. But with the passage of time that wall eventually suffocate him, finally throwing him into madness.

Mother, the song you have heard or will hear, is the sixth track of the first CD that makes up the album. On this song, which we propose that the movie version of the same name, soft tones almost remember a sweet lullaby, we see a dialogue between Pink ( Roger Waters ) and her mother ( David Gilmour): the mother that a woman iperprottetiva to defend his son from the cruelty of the world helps "build the wall." It also warns that Pink's mother does not want to leave the child for how not to risk losing it at that time lost her husband.

Although there are subtitles in the video also insert the full translation of the text:

Mother, do you think will throw the bomb?
Mother, do you think they'll like this song?
Mother, do you think they'll try to break my balls?
Mother should I build the wall?
Mother, I should compete to be president?
Mother should I trust the government?
Mother, will they put me in the firing line?
It's just a waste of time?

Hush now baby, baby, do not cry,
mom make all of your nightmares,
mother will pass all his fears,
mother will keep their here, under her wings,
not will let you fly, but it might let you sing,
mother held the baby in a cozy and warm.
Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby,
mother certainly will help to raise the wall.

Mother do you think she is enough for me?
Mother, think she's dangerous for me?
Mother, you tear your little boy?
Mother will she break my heart?

Hush now baby, Baby do not cry, Mom
check out all your girlfriends for you,
mom will not let go no dirty
mom wait until you get home, mom
always find out where you been,
mother held the baby healthy and clean.
Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby,
you will always be a baby to me.

Mother, did it need to be so pervasive?

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Poets Venturi

Poets coming! orators, singers, musicians coming!
not do today can justify or explain what I am, but you
, original news race, athletic, continental, greater than you know,
Arise! for you to justify.

For my part I write just a word or two, a prelude to the future, I do not do that
advance a moment, and vulgar, to plunge back into darkness.
I am the one who goes around, it never really stops, dropping on you, by chance, one look and immediately turns his face to you
committing the task is to try and define it, expecting
the most important things to you.

Walt Whitman

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books

My mother has read Anna Karenina during convalescence after yet another miscarriage, years before having me. She went into depression and he never read a book. He started with Pinocchio, a chapter in the evening for a whole year to make me sleep. I called him again fennel because I did not speak well and had a fear of bloody illustration of the whale, in a stormy sky flickers like a dolphin out of the storm to eat up pinocchio discontinued as soon as more up to half an 'air. The same I wanted to touch that page and then I quickly pulled the covers over his eyes and I uiuiuiuiiiii as a pig who escapes from the slaughterhouse. After fennel, my mother has read papillon, my horrid report cards and notes in your diary. Then he must be a relapse into depression because it avoids the books like the plague.

Today I went down in the hall, still groggy from sleep. My father had mounted shelves for TV, leaving a large brothel in the revolution. Two rough wooden shelves one above the other: the one below on the wall. The one on back to that below, but supported by books. The Brothers Karamazov on the one hand, all hydrogen jukebox from each other, to support the upper shelf, waiting for the glue to dry reinforcement. Good choice.
Today my father got angry. A lot. But just as much. He entered the kitchen while I ate the macaroni with the screwdriver, the good one.

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family go out for a ride



C is only one way to be children? And one only to be parents? If they push their children to the parents on the swings, higher than on uhuh! sometimes it happens and nobody notices, but that happens sometimes. The cap and the glove forgotten on the slide, crystallized frost, those of a parent if they were careless, that the child will be out looking for the careless parent desperate cries "my headset .. hahaha! I want .. ohoho! ".

If it were me on the edge of the lawn to watch the old intent to draw a spiral in the snow all around the tree in the middle, if I had surprised her to laugh at his turn in a circle at 11 pm .. she would like me run away? perhaps there would not even noticed me. But I think it more likely that he would stop staring at me in turn, the wind that takes shape in the cold dark, and without much thought I would shoot him with his shotgun, which, ah! I did not realize, was carrying a shoulder bag. A rap at the center of the forehead, the second, without taking aim, I touched his hat, knocking him to the ground further. And without another word he resumed his tour around all tree. I. .. are not on the ground in a pool of blood, I'm not begging God for another chance. I sit on the bench under the yellow street light that makes the snow with my good hole perfectly centered, it does not drip blood because it is not leaking. Sorry about the hat was new. The old woman keeps turning. L I had heard in the district, the old shoot them all, but I never creduto.

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MAKING Flippy Floppy Talking Heads




Nothing can come between us
Nothin gets you down
Nothing strikes your fancy
Nothing turns you on
Somebody is waiting in the hallway
Somebody is falling down the stairs
Set someone free, break someone's heart
Stand up help us out

Ev'rything is divided
Nothing is complete
Ev'rything looks impressive
Do not be deceived
You don't have to wait for more instructions
No one makes a monkey out of me
We lie on our backs, feet in the air
Rest and relaxation, rocket to my brain

Snap into position
Bounce till you ache
Step out of line
And you end up in jail
Bring me a doctor
I have a hole in my head
But they are just people
And I'm not afraid
Doctor Doctor
We have nothing in our pockets
We continue
But we have nothing left to offer
Faces pressed against the window
Hey! they are just my friends
Check this out don't be slick
Break our backs it goes like this . . .

We are born without eyesight
We are born without sin
And our mama protects us
From the cold and the rain
We're in no hurry
sugar and spice
We sing in the darkness
We open our eyes (open up)

I can't believe it
And people are strange
Our president's crazy
Did you hear what he said
Business and pleasure
Lie right to your face
Divide it in sections
And then give it away

There are no big secrets
Don't believe what you read
We have great big bodies
We got great big heads
Run-a-run-a-run it all together
Check it out - still don't make no sense
Makin' flippy floppy
Tryin to do my best
Lock the door
We kill the beast
Kill it!

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Cosmic Dancer

I was dancing when I was twelve I was dancing when I was aaah I danced myself right out the womb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself right out the womb I was dancing when I was eight Is it strange to dance so late I danced myself into the tomb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself into the tomb Is it wrong to understand The fear that dwells inside a man What's it like to be a loon I liken it to a balloon I danced myself out of the womb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself into the tomb But when again once more I danced myself out of the womb Is it strange to dance so soon I danced myself out of the womb

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Chairman of the Wounded Face The Night


When I started this blog I really wanted to talk only of poetry, but the attack on the prime minister deserves a discussion with a small post.

What happened yesterday was shameful as well as extremely serious. Those who, like the idiot Di Pietro, said the prime minister has tried since instigate aggression, says a giant shit (Mr Di Pietro, the magistrate "paid to the policy" should not say certain things, how we condemn the behavior was a victim commits a crime against, according to this logic, the blackmailers should be freed because the guilt and blackmail that has been placed in the position of being subjected to blackmail, but come on!).
Beyond the opinion that you may have about Berlusconi and regardless of which political party campaigning, aggression and the wounding of the President of the Council represents an act of terrorism to limit, not because it is an aggression to but a person to public office.
but I disapproving the policy of the government in power and do not feel any sympathy for Silvio Berlusconi, however, can not tolerate that might be committed such an act of violence against a person (of whatever) first, and also at that time is not Silvio Berlusconi's Mediaset neither he nor or any thing but a very clear constitutional position, that of prime minister. At that time it was not the lip of Silvio Berlusconi to be shot and bleeding but the entire Italian population, the Italian state and was wound freedom and democracy.
Who says non-violence, those who believe in freedom (in all its forms), who believes that democracy is not only a word but it represents an ideal can not indulge in acts of such violence. I would also like to add that Silvio Berlusconi deserves, regardless of political or any other thing than as a person and as an opponent.

We must be careful: our country is dividing, the climate of hatred is increasing every day more (and I do not just political hatred that exists between majority and opposition, but to a different type of hate, the see!), the difference who has the money and who does not rise, the economy has already collapsed, we do not manufacture anything our only creed is consumed, the public debt is increasing and many people are withdrawing Bot. What would happen if every single bot was withdrawn? It would be chaos! Do not believe the statistics and how do you know that all is well, is not it! This that awaits us if we go on like this is just the ruins, we must change course, take other roads, it is necessary that life returns to be as easy as people's needs: phones, homes, cars that constantly bucks, jewelry and whatever there sazieranno when you're hungry and when you do not quench thirst!

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C era questo tizio in tv, no, che ballava e si agitava tutto scomposto ma spettacolare perché aveva un suo senso. Uno di quei tipi che mica puoi dire che non sanno ballare, ballano in their own way, no choreography and no evidence of a mirror. Dancing drunk in the middle that looked like dancers who danced for real instead. But the coolest thing because he was in his composure was as light as the air. And he danced with his ass a little 'out waving his arms in the air and seemed to dance the Sirtaki, no? And a smile that took the eyes and teeth and say 'old stoned, that is me, I enjoy life!'. Then maybe get off the stage, go into the dressing room, takes off his smock decorated with arabesques pea green, lemon yellow, sits in front of the mirror, snorting, avoid glare, you look around, and then it falls your eye on that man who in front, runs her hands over her face, takes a deep breath to throw the weight of years, looks for real and pretend not to hear him he says' Just watch me 'those who believe that the fool here if you enjoy it', sarcastic smiles showing only a few teeth, takes the bottle of Editor's champagne-gift-that had opened before transmission, it makes a bit 'in a cup to save your neck in bubbles that otherwise drunk van all up for the nose, lights a cigarette, only smoke risbuffa but this time just . That's it. The show is over, it ends up all the rest. And maybe he always has a fool allegrone also in the daily lives But not only that. It's nice though to think that the spirit permeates much of life fool of that individual. In short, that sadness is really important and sometimes a light company, if you can look through the glasses of the fool-you know the ones with the eyeballs that they shoot out with the springs. The type is
Tery Gilliam. I do not know if all of the time was so mad monty python monty python or if fuoranza have contributed to the present. The fact is that I saw a man living light and gave me hope. And to hear him say 'life has no meaning, we must build that,' yes, I think I have had an effect. Even I could not drink the brandy made me effect. I'm hopeless eh?! I have time to die, but before I Tery Gilliam's face tattooed on one buttock. And on the other bubbles champagne

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Three women. A, E, M. At the bar, late afternoon. A drink a cup of coffee to American, and a glass of red wine firm, M a smooth water.
A. Confused, restless, paranoia tattooed in thick geometric embroidery on the face. Apparently absent eyes, trying to untangle the skein, resulting in further complicate the game. Holds with both hands the cup of hot coffee narrow and long, near the mouth, look for comfort in the rising steam. The coffee back home, but you may want to leave the guide and lead the world, in the bars of the city at a table watching the flow of the sidewalk and the silence of the dark, watching other people's stories or finding themselves unwittingly in, simple stories, every day, plays, poker moral hopelessnesses lost twenty-first century, satisfaction blindness or finalized. Coffees to go as in America, and then public parks, benches, autumn, from jogging to running about the welfare or the outburst of anger from accumulated stress .. notice the difference: the neurotic, one that has just been fired, it is recognized by not keeping their gymnastics, usually a crowd in suits shaking in 24 hours or run your laptop with the strap, which ends up throwing, liberating and resigned in a scream together, the frustration in the pond, duck raising a racket that would have preferred a few pieces of old bread. Then maybe you will knock him well, but later at night when no one can stop it or save it, when the water will break with his jacket stuffed with rocks, and fall asleep on fondo.Gli others, the flying buttresses of the upper floors, running through the shape, stretch fabrics and capacious lungs, have declared war on toxins and free radicals, unable to make their case, as health and energy of these thieves prosecuted legally, have the illusion of being able to escape into space athletic effort. Run like you run up against big business, the stick and the carrot of economic merciless and shameless. They run to the park, and run the office, running on the phone, run at lunch, run to bed. Also run from the dead, maybe. And coffee
desk, furnishings a must for every race and kind of workers and dreamers, artists, writers, managers secretaries employed medical students professors, almost manages to give consistency to efforts of the brain, the cup there to witness the shared existence, to keep them awake to the goal, after years and years. The cup that creates unexpected, upsetting suspiciously on valuable cards, keyboards shorting out, staining clothes and breaking the hard working in their minds clear considerations. The mug of awakening, the cardboard, the popular bar that is all because even if you wash you know how many there have been drinking?!, The plastic disposable served by a bartender with tokens often forget the toothpick to mix or is too engrossed while say stop with the sugar and continue to pay and so you drink a beverage already terribly unpleasant when an iceberg floating in blood sugar crystals. The cup and a cigarette and ashtray cup, cup and a book, dirty cup with other cups in the sink that slowly turns the dirty cups in the cabinet. Forgot the cup in the bathroom the morning after waking up in yet another delay. The broken cup and reassembled the broken cup in the garbage, but a little 'throw it sorry. The cup gun fights raging, full or empty, just throw it and hit the target. The polished wooden cup of fair trade in order to feel indigenous tribal ritual of coffee and savor the taste of the rainforest in the awakening of primal instincts. The dog bowl, the toilet bowl which is often that of the dog, the cup of the rides that turns turns around and is full of vomit. Cups filled with empty cups. The soul is like a cup that we must always keep busy, it can contain only a short time and yet be emptied before refilling. And if it is dirty, clean it, but maybe going to taste.
E. Talk talk talk, drunk on wine and life. She pauses to join the chorus of some songs really funny, then resumed the talkative soliloquy. He has ideas, several of each type for each season, confused and grandiose, nothing is insurmountable and with those ideas can do anything he wants. His mind paints, writes, reads, processes joints of freedom and glory, travel by train to the big city to el ferment the art, to the love of this sometimes-but he cares little. She loves life and the mad frenzy el nonsense and the poetry of the creative act. You can also go to the store and pay the bill with a drawing of a symbol for your fervent art, you are art because art is life, is what breaks the mold el-routine is the detail that becomes a giant super powers and fights any setting, is the thrill of understanding of other dimensions and connections, is to create alternative living. You're a little god unpretentious but of omnipotence that trembles in his own consciousness. Still wine, thank you!
M. She's tired, worn out from work, degraded by the hopes that he could have told her. The first communion, his face pale and fears, the pride of Catholic parents, the priest chants, the sign of the cross, boredom and guilt for doubting the existence of God. Her child a picture of the god had ever seen on TV and even on the news, everybody talks about but nobody knows who he is. The yeti, monster lockness and even the aliens are disturbed some trace it to leave. But no god. He disappeared from circulation after suffering the worst injuries and did a little 'of magic around. And a saaaacco time ago. How is this possible? You so easy to forget even having met someone in person and he does not. Then mediocre grades in school, have too much fantasy, too. Alone with her grandmother, parents met almost by accident at dinner, tired, wasted work, discouraged by the hopes that have had time to forget the back. Calculations, subtractions and additions, practice over the years and the age when you realize that 40 years will almost certainly saran their dead. The very first low blow of life, discover the pain in advance, for the first time really feel helpless. The death is not heaven nor hell, nor the angels who protect us. Death is evil and can not be cured. There are no games or flights of fancy to lighten the day, there is only a common destiny and remember to breathe because it serves to live. And wait.
The coffee is cold, the wine is finished, the glass of water is half empty. A
wakes from the tour of the cups. Find out the road, it rains. Umbrellas scurrying to pass quickly to the front window of the bar. The rain increased, violent beats Torque tube loose is thrown to the ground rebounded in a big fog droplets. The cues are more fragile and break with sudden powerful gusts of wind, which passes from below to above the side seems crazy and never stop passers-by. The umbrellas turned out of hand and follow the currents. It rains so hard that the mind can not think of anything else, everyone have a share of that unexpected. Who curses him, seems to have just had a shower dress, those in a hurry and impatient waiting in the arcades that raindrops fall, and who can not wait to be able to delay and lights a cigarette and reading the newspaper, who collects data on events related to study the seasonal average, those who drive and must pull over because we do not see a bat emerita, who is now and if the bike is taken and all the danger is his business, whoever you are flooding the basement and on and on with smanetta brooms and rags dry sawdust, and some as completely insane and embarks on the road to jump in puddles at the bottom of and dance and sing and shout for joy freed, who stunned the crazy looks like M in the flood, drawing up a list of ailments and inconvenient, as to all those who can not see anything at this already vague and distant thoughts, as the bartender who top up the glass E, warms the cold coffee and brings the account of A to M. And change the CD on the stereo because it has already broken.

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how much I


"... the life that flows to those who are current and perishes in the closed waters of scabies. And even if we invest, however, flows from 'the other side.
No more leaves me in my place, nothing leaves me in peace, neither the city nor the countryside, nor the hyper plane that goes to the edge of the stone streets where I come to shut up. Outside the city works the hips, to crash. Burns, curses and consumes. The whole earth embraced by the asphalt road, curbed by the development, overheated, creating, consumed, explodes into wild nights, in 'darkness fumigant, in tidal waves, wriggles and shakes as he can. The rage he feels from the outside as a crucible primordial music that pervaded by referring cicada 's a l' other. Meanwhile, I remain here, clinging like behind a rock, a rock 's exile ... to protect the full, of' living the street life.
If it is only in the 'clear water you can see yourself, you heal me, God of the amount by' eagerness and me!
Give me from enjoying the immeasurable quantity, but not flooded, do not make me lose in anything, in the din, the stagnation, do not pigeonhole me in those days formette be sweet, since no day is a bowl. It is a relief ...
still give to my heart ... my heart! He died a thousand times at least, my heart. He lived even dying, brooding death itself, if 'is required under attack, tight, making no distinction, and died a hundred times a day. That's life ... but it certainly does not die every morning, you die once. "
Vinicio Capossela-no one dies every morning

Suitcasewith Garment Rack

supernova


Puzzo. A smell sour, bitter, pungent.
Buffo. Because in these days of apathy and boredom, the only activity that seems to distract and capture the stopping time is just wash my hands. Spending hours to soak in the tub full of water up to rim. A stomach, holding their breath, sometimes with open eyes, closed more often, not doing anything, just lose track of any size, even gravity, skin and mind until all become one with the water. As if I had gills, if we were born. And a little 'I think it's right, a vague memory but strangely pleasant and comforting amniotic fluid, in which the perception of weight you lose, you remember, is unnecessary. That's where I find my essential, I get rid of matter and of all that binds me through it the rest of the world and remain dormant in the contemplation of the senses and relieved, the nerve impulses that lose power and is designed to make small discharges slowly running out, fireflies of water dispersed, floating, light, they scatter to a stop, the balance achieved the intended purpose. Thing out there is to be granted to the gravity that crushes everything to the ground, which means that everything, every single element has an 'origin and purpose, a jealous father-master, to which we attach morbid. A 'unique attraction that brings down all the creatures to stretch out and run out skyward, toward the light, toward the unknown and the state of grace of which seem to be equipped with the stars, that we can never touch, but only dream of, and even think you have already consumed in the moment of their reality.
I feel so, a supernova, in water as in the sky. I wish I could stay a long time immersed in the absence of breath, were it not for the lungs of mice that I find myself. And sometimes I try to resist, pushing me beyond my ability, forcing life and death to brush her .. the gap is short, yet it seems so far away and unthinkable, inconceivable.

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a slip in the hat


wanted to demonstrate that there is no remedy

At sfighe previously He wondered auguratesi


irresponsibility and she does not take long for the subtle evil cynical account


undisturbed at the top of our heads because we are many

all have not yet reached number-

-chief of all chiefs and

nice and high and arguably complacent grins

not always very sincere

Besides, these days the true face is rare that one would prefer

no need to hide
unsuccessful
a cast of perfectly normal
But no matter .
If the item is near and far
relief following ear then I hid the ego
with pink flowers and light elephants
liver hopes and dreams in bubble wrap. All
acid

so to speak without taking anything

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recipes by S. Rooster by S. Weerepas

After a short holiday at the Italian coast of Liguria, S. Weerepas got inspired by Italian recipes and in special the fish dishes. Fish and sea food has been a continuing theme in the artist's works and these paintings show an evolution within the artist's work.

This new series has new color schemes and combinations compared to her previous works. The hues are fresh and very well combined with each other.

For more information, please contact us through the web site or e-mail: judidutchart@gmail.com

'Branzino in crosta di sale'

Size 100 x 50 cm

'Ricciola o Seriola'

Size 120 x 100 cm

'Fish for dinner'

Size 60 x 50 cm

'Branzino or spigola'

Size 120 x 100 cm

'Sea bass in salt crust'

Size 100 x 50 cm

'Sea bass in salt crust'

Size 100 x 150 cm

Elpitical Machines Chest Pain

Pinky Sweet

'Haan'

Size 120 x 150 cm

Puss Filled Bump On Dog's Head

Weerepas Purply by S. Coffee Breaks

'A cup of tea'

Size 50 x 60 cm

'A cup of tea'

Size 100 x 50 cm

'Cake and Coffee'

Size 50 x 60 cm

Do I Need A Wave Guide Cover For My Microwave

the march of the gravediggers

But the sky is more and more dots
But the sky is growing in suspension
But the sky is increasingly fogliforme
But the sky is always more despondent
But the sky is increasingly in the street of extinction
But the sky is increasingly on
But the sky is becoming increasingly brand
But what the fuck is costing us the sky?!
Perhaps, the gravedigger's work is more profitable and sensible
If the dead were not buried but left to rot in air, spreading of diseases and plagues and human race will become extinct in no time
The undertaker preserve the human race
The undertaker Undertaker is the Saviour God


Day of the Dead
We remember them, but why? From
fuck everyone knows that does not give a fuck the dead to be remembered
Ne 'us to remember too
Or we want to keep them alive
Or too we need to keep us alive
Or too would like to be with them
O for them
Who is already dead and still does not know who
is too alive and had better die
Who does not realize it 'to be alive it' to be dead
Who judges the judges who live by the living dead
alive
Who judges the dead alive
Who does not judge the living dead because their souls to peace
Who cares who live and dead
as a matter of life or death
more unpleasant the more unpleasant life or death?
It is so attached to this life because it is believed to be the only one that ever will.
I do not think so. I am left with the doubt but I do not make an existential question

flies suicide on Highway
Let's talk about the memories are alive and not dead flies

Stupid flies

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Dr. root tip and miss everyone

roots change the soil, water and worms, they gain yards, are anchored new stones, it stirs up others, others shun them.
And on top of the tips of branches are silent cramped, cold. But have no fear of winter? They are not afraid to face it all alone, in the firing line? I wonder what they think of their cousins \u200b\u200bdiggers
palliducce .. never seen a blade of sunlight ..
ah eh?! And you know even with a worm is made ..
underground because instead c is any spare pens? You have some idea of \u200b\u200bhow to fly? ..
and you do not suffer from vertigo and not risk never falls to the floor because there is far higher in the neck? ..
pale and sociopathic ..
dry and self-centered ..

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PARA

because every action must have its own weight? because it is not within the cake?
weight in the air?
el air in the bottle?
and if you throw a bottle of air does it hurt?
of air if I eat fattening?
and lose weight if I stop breathing? yes.
the brain how much it weighs?
weighs but because of all the thoughts that are inside?
more thoughts you have the heavier?
then I walk by dragging her head on the ground?
a happy person weighs less than a paranoid person?
and then also has the smaller head?
Lombroso makes me a blowjob?
and if the scale is calibrated then the evil is relative weight?
then the units of weight (?) Has established the the man?
and then it's a rip-off and / or travel mental?
about trips to the moon if I go there all weighs less?
and if I go just me and you stay here with respect to your My brain would weigh less?
perhaps already weighs less?
particularly significant?
if you get a postcard from my moon means that my brain is flat line, in my cranium c is the echo and the last neuron is left alone as he rummages rummaging in rudo to see if it finds its spark.
of consciousness.
him at least.

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diet is BEAUTIFUL


later thought was maybe I can finish the drawings for bologna
by Monday evening the sisters
mean little voices do not stop whining in the brain
even if they sing louder sing

the doctor says it's only the sound of blood flowing
you hear when there is silence or when you are tired
the blood makes a noise in the ears

but only because I do not put points tonight I do not like
make a lot of blood droplets
sooner or later be drawing something with my
but we'll sign anything
challenging
compromising

very decadent and perhaps a bit 'emo emo blood
well the name says the
emo are so fanatical blood
stagliuzzatori
of paranoia at this point I'm afraid to be a bit 'emo
inside and I do not like and do not comfort me
damn mode
paranoia is not a fashion
is the essence of life without paranoia
eccheccacchio
there would be no good and bad
but Berlusconi has some
or huge tumor that keeps you in the head and pacifiers away even that?

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September 20 - Sampdoria - Siena Sampdoria

gloomy day in September ... we're leaving late due to a subscription that thought to stay at home ...
Genoa welcomes us with a few drops of rain, which throughout the game and will go to refresh those of the parterre. "
there is much enthusiasm, one can speak of the record, four wins in four matches, but good luck holding back a lot of words ...
and instead prepared via the backboard lights up a 1 to 0 for us ...
the game goes on, we admire our colors on those guys, that's crazy the things they are doing to really ...
4a1 is the final result is an exciting steps SOUTH spelndida Sampdoria.

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let's see

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the adventures of gyrosfans contiunuano although readers the Web may think otherwise ...
almost a year has passed since that cold October lettolituano ...
... a season that has brought us to Rome for a cup to play in Italy remained "neutral" Olympic stadium .. shout their opponents, who were playing at home.
then the friendly matches and a season that begins ...
emozionevole first league game in Catania ... character and a lot of flags and Sampdoria in the middle of Sicily at the end of summer ... and then the first at home, proud to welcome Sampdoria roar of those guys who make things crazy. .. and to follow a sea of \u200b\u200bcolor and excitement in Bergamo ... three wins three matches ...
shhht ...

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ME & Bianka

s orry alice! GIUSTAPPUNTO I HAVE FOUND THE COUNTRY .. Will not tell you how they got there .. SAY THAT THE RECOMMENDATIONS OF FRIENDS RELATIVES THROUGH FRIEND HAD TO GET THEIR WEIGHT IN FARMICI .. BIANKOGLIONE AND IS NOT IN A HURRY. NEVER. The Cat L HAN AND PUT ON A DIET is gone forever, PEACE TO HIS SOUL. The Caterpillar IF THE SON SMOKED THE CARDS. The Hatter cumpà SON AND FINALLY ABLE TO CELEBRATE A BIRTHDAY IS TRUE. DO NOT drink more tea, but why does VODKA & REDBULL FIG. THE QUEEN OF HEARTS is rags WAS DUE, YOU HALF AND HALF TO ANOTHER .. EVERYONE IN SEARCH OF HIS GOAL .. OR HALF .. OR NOT SO WELL. ALL REGULAR AND VERY VERY habit. Remains a doubt, however. WHY NOT HERE IF the odd SON (more) of CASA, the current state of things is very frightening MOST OF ALL THOSE WONDERS you said?!

FORGOTTEN ARE IN THE BUSINEZZ Bianka, HAS DECIDED TO RAISE HIS IMAGE .. SAI .. MORE COOL, YEAH MORE, MORE MONEY MORE POWER MORE PUSSY .. IF YOU ARE INTERESTED (A PUSSY MONEY POWER) KNOW WHERE TO FIND U.S.! AUNT BELLA! SEE YOU SOON!