All my alsos are congregating on an opposite wire, like the buzzards of Bath
by Christos Polydorou
I ask Italy all sorts of far reaching out there impossible questions. The more ironclad the better. What philosophy? This is real life! Why is it, beautiful Italy, that even though I am here and I am real and I am true, why do I often Also sense this overwhelming remastery of my every cell deep in breaking me wide open as though I am swimming at collosally high pressures?
Do not tell me it is emotional.
Do not expect me to be deceived.