” Over fifteen years ago a child began to irrepressibly dream of becoming a genuine magician in the craft of words.(…) Writing incontestably is the unique inalienable fortress of my spirit. Only this art of creation makes me perceive myself as an ageless essence, not an infinitesimal mortal. Plus, it constitutes my cathartic sanctuary, as through pouring my aches and anxieties in it I manage to maintain my daily jocular cheerfulness. Ultimately, is my trace of existence for posterity. (…) In the end, I would like to sincerely and utterly thank you for taking the time, and sacrificing the necessary patience, to dive in my personal artistic realm. I can only hope that it will provide to at least a few of you, my readers, a fraction of the solace that I find in the creations of the people who resonate with my nature and path.” (Spirit of Misanthrope Wolf)
Green eyes, dirty color of insurgent waters.
Threads of raw or ripe grass. You yank them? It will rain!
That digs in you like a camouflage of dozing reptiles.
One child had found a gelid stick, he brought it home.
The coziness revived a source of poikilothermal venom.
A bite, just one in full.
Enough. For as the silence to encompass everything.
A single wolf, black, the tint of hope in the headlights
Of interior night. Howl, howl. Full moon. You know its game?
It is an invitation? A riposte? A liberation?
Green, to revive you periodically, to find us. And the furies
To calm in clenching of lianas suffused
With sap, without excitable nerves.
Can you observe?
Emerald, jade, the green mark on my left shoulder blade
Given by a generation now synonymous with epilogue.
Scratch my soul beyond my breast. Do not be lenient,
The brutality is the balm that contains my finite
Spirit. A misanthrope wolf. Green eyes. Black all.
The principal reason for my avowed misanthropy is my intemperate empathy. I utterly feel that “I am an emotional plagiarist, stealing other people’s pain, subsuming it into my own until I can’t remember whose it is any more.” (Sarah Kane)