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.

Kowka War Zone. Harvest moon.

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Go buzz,
Lady

overstacking
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).

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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.

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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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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Essentially a precipitate of crazy intentions of a bizarre periodic system,
armored on a millimetric substrate of bland mimetic intelligence,
or of naive hope, we carried a wooden burning torch of our desperate need to understand something of this world, at least that little to overcome the threshold of a span, even though we already knew that it would be a forgotten rediscovery,
one of the many paths traveled at the same time at different times,
because we have already done it, perhaps in different ways, but already done.
Precipitation of naive knowledge, perhaps without the possibility of friction, once again.

(
They chipped away the words roughly without caring too much,
in great mass and speed, in acceleration as if they had a demon in the ribs,
they used them as a saturation fire to fill a white frame
or cover for a moment of reflection.
)

We are in a glowing halo
and
we don’t see any stars today,
along proximity lines
avoiding shelters
we have sprinkled our words
with
a fourth part
of our (inner)
pound of flesh.

 

Essenzialmente un precipitato d’intenzioni folli di un bizzarro sistema periodico,
blindato su un millimetrico substrato di blanda intelligenza mimetica,
o di ingenua speranza, portavamo una lignea fiaccola ardente del nostro disperato bisogno di capire qualcosa di questo mondo, almeno quel poco per superarne la soglia d’una spanna, anche se in fondo già sapevamo che sarebbe stata una riscoperta dimenticata, uno dei tanti sentieri percorsi allo stesso tempo in tempi diversi, perché già l’abbiamo fatto, magari in modi diversi, ma già fatto.
Precipitato di ingenuo sapere, forse senza possibilità d’attrito, ancora una volta.

(
Scalpellavano via le parole con rozzezza senza curarsene troppo,
in gran massa e velocità, in accelerazione come se avessero un demone alle costole,
le usavano come un fuoco di saturazione per riempire una cornice bianca
o di copertura per un momento di riflessione.
)

Siamo in un alone luminoso
e
non vediamo stelle oggi,
lungo le linee di prossimità
evitando rifugi
abbiamo cosparso le nostre parole
con
una quarta parte
della nostra (interiore)
libbra di carne.