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



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?







Kowka War Zone. Harvest moon.

Go buzz,

of inners layers
standing near a blind trench
hovering in a dismantled internal balance
flooded and sinked our armoured skin
and broken sectors in a concave splinted chest now,
so blinded, so fuzzy,
a little hidden frenzy, maybe,
if they cared about the things
what we carries inside us.












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


Drifts along a deep blue line near the edge of the wood,
the life,
if you can remember our shifted ways
where we was diffracted trought a sad crucible,
ou could you step out to our odd path,
winter soldiers drop their inner sparkles,
fragmented in a water lilies,
dropped near the limit of the Milky Way,
a shifted shadows was glowing near
the downstream of the ozone layer.
And so, c’mon, you really can’t remember this blowing wild wind,
from the deepest north,
like a crepuscolar harpoon stucked
in our chipped ribs?






Kowka War Zone. Dreamed dusk above the blind souls.



Missing doppler signals from beacon zeta,
no echoes from beacon zeta, sister,
deploying our blind necks at the crepuscular ghosts,
and we awaits some kind of merciful illusions, but our legs are broken and knees bended, we can’t stand up to see again the sunrise, we only can see the rise of the Perseus arms, twinking smoothly, throught our blinded eyes for a strange kind of emotional drops shaped like a continous inner circles without stopping without time or sound, forged in a strange kind of external silence, and in a deeper louds of a primeal scream, without voices, without collision of a minimal particles of matter.
And now, he we go again, go silent, go deep, in a blind ghost recon under a purple haze stained into the ourfragmented bones elongated near the event horizon of ancient bastions, before the extraction zone, one strange and (maybe) dreamed constellations of phospens,
Zulu point.


Segnali doppler mancanti,
nessun eco dal beacon zeta, sorella,
dispiegando i nostri colli ciechi sui fantasmi crepuscolari,
aspettiamo qualche sorta di misericordiosa illusione, ma le nostre gambe sono rotte e le ginocchia piegate, non possiamo alzarci in piedi per vedere di nuovo l’alba, possiamo solo vedere il sorgere del braccio di Perseo, scintillando dolcemente, attraverso i nostri occhi accecati per uno strano tipo di gocce emotive a forma di cerchi interni continui senza sosta senza tempo o suono, forgiate in uno strano tipo di silenzio esteriore, e in un suono più profondo di un grido primordiale, senza voci, senza collidere nessuna minima particella di materia.
E ora, andiamo di nuovo, silenti, andiamo giù, in una cieca ricognizione fantasma sotto una foschia viola intarsiata nelle nostre ossa frammentate allungate vicino all’orizzonte degli eventi di antichi bastioni, prima della zona di estrazione, una strana e (forse) sognata costellazione di fosfeni,
Zulu point.









Kowka War Zone. Wrong way for heaven, bro.

I want to see heaven, brother,
let me see the sky because I can’t do it anymore
I’m scared,
let me see the sky again before it implodes out of me,

i don’t want to go blind
i want to see again
chasing and
the life

reverse angle for the downstreaming in the ozone layer
inward torsion
skin is in
soul is out
don’t search me inside
but below the fragmented shock wave
we are over there.