A windy morning, a piece of paper
is fluttering about
I’ll catch it.
Lying on the love altar,
I offer myself to the enchantment of pain
poor, fated, unheard.
So Fellinian.. baroque enough to let
any adverb changing the whole: I’ll go for happily,
somewhere before lying or offer, or later, to frustrate the triad.
Some kind of failure drove him crazy, I guess.
A movie, a flop, the eleventh line:
I’m an awful lover, but still love better than you.
God, take the voice away of him. The plot is weak.
The Maestro had a clear base of judgment: boredom.
Well, keep that feeling for yourself! He would have shouted.
As far as I’m concerned,
I’ll hold you off!