BY GRAZIANO GIACO
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
Graziano Giaco is a poet, collage artist and photographer.
BY GRAZIANO GIACO
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
Graziano Giaco is a poet, collage artist and photographer.
BY GRAZIANO GIACO
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
Graziano Giaco is a poet, collage artist and photographer.
BY GRAZIANO GIACO
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
The birdman has no wings. His beak is ultrasound.
His eyes are searing arrows that pierce the resistances of the seas.
His silence has enormous breath.
It overwhelms the merciless eyes of the scorching earth.
His heart is a glowing ruin.
It has no wings to fly, only to sink into the unguarded breast of dreams asleep in stones.
His flight is studded with mud, debris of stars drowned in the sky, thoughts smoothed by wind waves.
His body is millions of air drops that have lost their way home.
His home is a stormy wind, his smile is the burning veins of trees that have cut roots with every earthly power.
Birdman has volcanic eyes, his voice is thunder that writes the memories of centuries in the pages of the fearful skies,
his flights are linear and incorrect, his body is a divine amulet capable of unhinging the prophecies of the five aligned senses.
His planet is a torch that twists like a ladder never intended yet desired by every human snapshot.
Her love is a distraction, a dilation of muscles to the explosion of dreamy tissues.
Her hands are claws, her legs are branches raising forbidden fruit.
Her every line is unfamiliar with the sense of human habit.
Darkness trembles as her heart explores the possibilities of morning detonation.
His body is a map pointing the way for all successful losers.
His face is a mirrorless labyrinth.
His hands cut love into equal and different parts so that every inhuman being can enjoy a crumb of holiness.
No one knows his name because no one claims to be able to call him.
Disappearing is its march.
His revolution is an enigma twisting the skin of the forests.
Too mad is his heart to be drunk in a glass of ice.
His going is a scattering without a trace.
Graziano Giaco is a poet, collage artist and photographer.