Kowka War Zone. Sunken sight.

The horizon line of the Winter soldiers were dumped near a carbon stars near the Perseus Arm of the Milly Way, above a glimpsed shockwave’s front of an ancient photons birthed casually inside a gamma ray burst.
Sunken sight at 3.75 k, winter soldiers,
all was dimmed in a narrow band infrared ghosts downstream the ozone layer,
winter soldiers: they see with other soul’s eyes.
Sunken sight.

Con la faccia trascinata nel vento, come una rotta speranza, ad altezza degli occhi d’un gatto, un passo dopo l’altro, a piedi nudi, conto i granelli d’asfalto.
Sotto una berciata pioggia di pietrisco già passai, inutile riprovare, il mio cuore é con loro, fracassato il guerriero, impavido continua, fa scudo sul piccolo, non teme nulla, disdegna lo scontro futile.
Se apre l’uscio non é per un tiro d’infilata, ma solo per saggiare se un filo di primavera é tornata, s’apre al mondo e sono ferite, ma le sole che vorrebbe sono quelle delle sue solitarie e silenti battaglie, il mondo urlato non è la sua casa.
Vorrebbe solo la pace, faccia sull’erba, dita sotto le fronde d’albero, finalmente il sorriso sul volto sbocciato.
E magari parole come palmi aperti e non pugni. Ogni tanto, anche per sbaglio, se non imbarazza troppo.
Ora torno lassù, senza bisogno di troppe parole, parlerò con noi, senza spigoli, ma con abbracci.

139ers War Zone. Subluminal shifted point of view.

Far (or maybe)
beyond the edge of Cygnus Loop
newborned stars sink in OIII layers or ancient first stars like a ghosts of a disappeared cosmic generations
above the zenital plane of Perseus Arm crossed sights but not polarized along on the same wavelenght of probability
flowed along the Milky Way with no possibility
of a closest encounter in a seppia virated time.
They becomes a dusty colored non visible,
if not in a narrow band emission in a distanced infrared,
the winter soldiers was redshifted so long to blinking
only on a linear dream bulk like a blind photons shaked
at 3.5 kelvin or dimmed along 1.39 nanometers.

139ers War Zone. Ancient monaural stem cells below halo horizon, bro

Low frequencies splinter cells filled with crepuscolar shockwaves
over the circled words a red hailstorm
deep colored by the crimison bengals below the horizons
below the mighty infrasonical screams without voices
no bandwidth cross our polarized pupils
we was here,
sinked fragmented furred souls
across the raged haloes
blinking in the darkness void.










139ers War Zone. Cookie Lady forged a full nightmare jacket (VI).

Off the halo, Cookie Lady,
we’re falling down and trimmed off about our sprinkled dream in counterlight near the circumferences of a high velocity bullets through our corroded ribs, simple entry point, unknown sized of exit points, our souls slammed down with a corpuscolar haloed debris near a dimmed indigo light flanked a Cherenkov flare along the inner shell shock defragmentation, we sat shoulder to shoulder near a speckled terraced soil of the 139, can you hear me Cookie Lady, near the white noised and sub raged hailstorm?

Kowka War Zone. Twenty-seven days to plow the light of the Moon dust.

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He was standing, straight as a spindle, with his feet planted in the ruler in the center of the Sea of Tranquility, straight even though he continually shifted his weight from one knee to the other, and his shadow took twenty-seven days to plow the grayish light to climb. hovering and going down, they said that everything was quiet there, without jolts, or yes, but the view was always the same, and then at night there was a freezing cold, during the day with the sun at the meridian a hellish heat, and under the sky without air or water it rained, and if it rained, cosmic rays, x, gamma, heavy protons and floods of solar storms arrived, well, there was some madman chasing the terminator to have a moment of peace.
It was standing like a spindle, shifting its weight from one side to the other, to better blend in with the sky, or perhaps the wall.
Did you fall off the moon?
Could be.
All quiet there?
Yes all quiet, why can’t you see it?

 

Era ritto, diritto come un fuso, coi piedi piantati nella regolite nel centro del Mare della Tranquillità, diritto anche se spostava continuamente il peso da un ginocchio all’altro, e la sua ombra ci metteva ventisette giorni per arare la luce grigiastra ad arrampicarsi stare in bilico e ridiscendere, dicevano che lì era tutto tranquillo, senza scossoni, o sì, ma il panorama era sempre quello, lo stesso, e poi di notte c’era un freddo glaciale, di giorno col Sole al meridiano un caldo infernale, e sotto il cielo senza aria o acqua pioveva, eccome se pioveva, arrivavano raggi cosmici, x, gamma, protoni pesanti e sgrullate di tempeste solari, beh, c’era qualche folle che rincorreva il terminatore per avere un attimo di pace.
Era ritto come un fuso, spostava il suo peso da una parte all’altra, per confondersi meglio col fondo cielo, o forse la parete.
Sei caduto giù dalla luna?
Può essere.
Tutto tranquillo là?
Sì tutto tranquillo, perché non si vede?