where the writers are
On the Street Motorbikers

seeking the golden shadow

of irreal things

I'm crossing this vulgar unique city

- sex dimanche -

where the brain is a late trap

of the feelings

on the street motorbikers

steal blindmen's canes

to acquire a ludic existence

down the stairs into a bar I go/through the


light of the lighter

I can see the polirhythmical angel of music

- sex/zero/sex/tobacco -

this cybernetic sun is spotless

likewise lovers lack deep eyes