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You reached the middle of the forest
after walking a long time
and dark season ended
grass leaves revived.
You come from a red cove
and go towards your ganesh
playing puss in the corner
tile thrown on water surface
modeled by your lovers.
Without believing more to change
what is left always equal.
You are not there, transparent
the vampire and the mirror
tired to watch, to wait for
you seek only your ganesh.
I am sure you will find it
like the mushrooms in the underbrush
when you amused yourself behind it
imaginary patron
a god who taught you
how to stay on the path
exploring little by little.
Perhaps it was the oak, the juniper
the most similar shape
a green, energetic
God never disappeared from his forest.
You can seek him still
when there is not the thunderstorm
because it is dangerous close there
even for the favorite son.
Like others before
you would be hit to death
by his jerks of mood
quickly buried in the rotten part.
From beyond you would have nostalgia
of the Against Nature walks
the green god of your existence.
Ancestors versifiers, gymnasts
of thought and body
tanned in the winters at seaside
without food for the days of penitence
put one in row to the other
in the museum of "who goes is lost".
Everything rains of on the gray river
and the very patient Chinese
catches the body of the enemy.
Winners of many contests
experience pietas for this land.
I am among them, Sissy competitor
and put for broke only
only who is already ruined.
I am a little coward hero.
They drink rotten water
not from the green goblet.
Embalmed mummies laugh sadistic
to strangers come since little
smell satisfied their lairs.
Woe to invade their territories
since a war threatens.
They are the keepers of the dirt
nourish themselves of poor mice
seasoned with dust and verdigris.
Where the stinking ones pass
plants die, flowers get dry
under breaths and disgusting spits.
Nevertheless someone survives
escaping from their curse
ruddy grows, inhales from the bottom
of a vague blister light.
The incinerator god burns
commanders and servants
roasts as brushwood
the usurpers of the sacred urbe
so that nobody will be born again.
I am gypsy musician
rescued to the last massacre
saved by the horse, by the owl
and I live anywhere, like deadweight.
Jim sought the first tower
and found a space gallery
with pieces of pulverized spaceships.
Astonished he sought the other tower
lifting a broken shutter
on the body of a wood guitar.
Nylon cords enclosed
In a malicious play.
He should enter, face
every loathsome thing.
If he won nine times
he would have played that scrap.
Jim performed his buzz
without score on precipice.
I followed only myself without betraying
and every so often I search in the night
what in the day is a testament.
It’s all my lifetime they set dogs on me
or call back the children
as I were tainted, human fellows
like me, as soon as I put down myself among them.
In the end I scent
and I know what kind of race born me.
Singer, outside free never.
Earth is my mater
and with the sky between darkness and dawn
bred me in a rush.
My race is troubled
without losses of time, always
before returning to the parents
while the human beings do the remainder
not to disperse their seed.
Little by little, slowly
that country dressed up its Sunday best
sank in the darkest depression.
Every haughtiness ended under the ashes
the fast things slowed down sad
and the dead town was born
where all thought to be alive
but really they were drowsy
they greeted each other from the deep
unaware to themselves and the rest of the world.
Men of the tourist ruins
sold little figures of themselves
while they danced tarantella
striking the diabolic hoof.
I landed to the lost town
badly bathed by the eternal river.
In front of the agency number one
pass the horses of the race
puffing exhausted by centuries of hardships
and refuse to leave at the whip
The first tower of the miracles falls
the painting falls of the Spanish painter
unaware he was in the place of God
with the invitation of the red devil.
From the international gallery
they ask back the lost talent
and the second old tower falls
as it was pasted of clay.
Under the skeletal hoods
fragile assassins fall down
as ninepins in a children's game.
With small fingers marked by chilblains
pruritic of scabies and fleas
for mockery, down all the towers.
The empty square remains
carousel sent back to the infinite.
Patrizia Caterina down there
collects the heads of powerful ones
like David against the giant.
She lifts her arms, one head at a time
and even blood do not drop.
Of what where made that monsters?
Someone has already thought in future
to remake more solid towers
if the human history followed nature.
He was in front of the water flowing
always in the same direction, fishing.
I told him “teacher, you are dead
why do you come back to me in dream?”
He smiled sadly ironic
and made a circle on the water.
"You had not understood what was
that sad story on the sea.
Now it is what you will feel close to you
in this time of rust and blood.
But you are still alive, and I am a shadow
that already then escaped the shore.
He was the renegade father, the drunkard
the one who loved the bullfights
the emotion that does not let you live
apart from in the extreme nature.
Father too warm, strong
weakened by his male age
till to voluntarily die.
Hated, loved a short time ago, in disorder
without a reason, he and his sea.
I love the past of my future country.
My belly rumbles
empty entrails, replenished of air.
I am massive eighteen
and I write color blasphemies
near the places of the rich ones.
They pass full of food and goods.
A night without sneak moon
I massacred for little
underpants and healthy t-shirts
a crocodile pocketbook
an avalanche of invitations to parties
where nobody will ever go.
In my country I was Gipsy
here I am fierce wolf
next to the she wolf that nurses
me and the my brother with random blows.
Blood flows and drags away
because I have a backwards hunger
and still I am beast in the forest
fluo eyes without moon policewoman.
I will kill of again, with the hope
to stop any day
and come back gipsy to my country
where someone is waiting for
his good boy of the forest.
I will carry knives and stolen money
near the bonfire of the chapel.
The cheerful company is dissolved
scrutinizing the safe fixed stars
up there where the humans don’t arrive.
They would have to yield their dreaming throne
to the grumbling, diminishes generation
behind its psychiatric games.
It would be better if someone from the dream
stayed in the neighborhood to drive safe
with music of the black American
who one day scared me to death
and now I heard with another voice
and I saw beautiful, stifling my breath
of the forgetful European esthete.
Also he runs away satisfied
With the cheerful company of the high school
where I did not know how much I was happy
being already so inhuman.
In a dawn very far away
also I will be of the cheerful company
painted, described, set to music
by myself, eighteen century boy
and an ugly black American.
Here is the Atlantic storm
with the deaf splash of the bombs
arriving till our galaxy.
Infamous times of boredom
oceanic master.
We are slaves of a crazy man
who doubtful advances
spying on every our gesture.
Times of hate, brawls in the dives
of gentleman without soap
whose legs to pull only
or to hang without clothes-hook
to the uncovered thread of stream
so they dry more in hustle.
Dust returns to the dust.
Before they invited the sage
trying to hide the soul
to use it to boast.
Then closed the meeting
and the sage went cheerful
leaving in appearance
every thing like before. Illusion.
Even in the times of boredom
if Tenzin ponders far away
many things change on the fly
towards our filmy greenhouse
and I am no more orphan.
Come to me, Yankee
I will take you to gymnasium, to water
to the hall of a closed school
to the toy stores for adults
to wrap carousels and carillon.
Let’s drink the must of Halloween.
It is not still late, follow me.
I had always and only
the huge gift of speech
and a coal stove
bought for little liras.
They took away to me both them.
You can find my words in the air
saddling an invisible horse.
Come here, Yankee
jump on the train of emigrates
sardines pressed each other.
They go to work, to love
someone to kill, to steal.
Remove the commas from my life.
Nobody could do it before you.
The mixture, the cover I use
to spy on the truth of the world
is a curious compound of the obvious
that does not trick anybody.
I am not normal
I have poisoning particles
in the leading genius
triggering innate allergies
and cough outside weak deceits
to the one who performs an improper part.
If you meet me poor dressed
do not say hard the your assets
and if I double wrapped in a fur
do not try to ask who I am
since you already know from tales.
So they fear me and escape
Or plot against me
in vain, without obtaining anything.
The theater is my passion
nobody can say what I am.
It is simply difficult now
being human on the planet.
Me and you are at the sacred river
in the small boat of the missing ones
waving very slowly
We arrived alone in means
after many swift escapes.
We are not shrewd of the path
and now we stay to look each other.
The source is far away
but also the mouth is not there.
Now we rest ourselves a little
without hustle to continue
we enjoy a little the sacred river.
I seek among the rubbish of Naples
the record player the municipality stole to me
the black bookstore, the drawing board.
The chairs was not able to pinch
the cleaning cooperative
and the colleagues of registry of the magicians.
I no more played the records
nobody knows that I sing them by myself
conserving them with patience I have not
towards the new sweepers of the country
who leave the rotten in the open air
and they, down around to seize.
Weak jagged waves
lukewarm water to the knees
in their full days
and suddenly it comes dark.
Without fear the two walk
because the jellyfishes are distant
discovered by a great full moon
that silvers the other fishes.
After it is not known what they do
in a quivering ocean.
Saints who seek other places
where to stop undisturbed
the culprits fall in solar traps
with thoughtlessness, without get on wick.
On the hill of the mysteries
your bonfire is always ignited
to warm up soothe memories
so fatuous to vomit
happy days only for feint.
You aspired to perfect things
loves given to the eternity
the death in young age
instantaneous and painless.
Tedious times were there
to pull your hair
yawning the long waits
of miraculous feelings.
Someone tried to explain you
that the short or extended life
would not have gone so.
You have something in hand
other flights only for you.
Less than two lives ago.
They courted
a very curious lady.
Stones in place of accessories
everywhere golden bolts
screwed every where.
The divinity was in her
before looking in the mirror everywhere.
She is not an any woman
also after centuries of idleness.
She is trying a new image
for tourists, for cooks and thieves.
Thin stockings at a denim
ecological varnish to ozone.
She has put in head an actor
capable to seem attractive
who before the stage
he chased wild animals.
The whole worn planet
is at their disposition.
They meet each other where noone of them two
has ever put down foot
and perhaps not even attract each other
so disguised in the time.
You would say it will be love
the illusion to live better
taking them hand in hand.
Just after two lives.
When spring will come
what should happen will happen
in the garden of the wicked man
where the row of caterpillars advances
already attractive to be seen, imagining the warmth
the season in which they will be butterflies
and will devour the vegetation.
Someone will remain without wings
skinning also the human
now no more next to the life.
Without revenge the nature
will arrange everything, and the bad man.
An invitation to the cinema of the past
to run after the lost occasions
to cover gigantic mistakes
done chin-deep in water
or foaming at the mouth
for the too desire of power.
Then it was time to choose
decent, honest, gifted heads
rather than sending them beyond curtain
or in the haze of the forgetfulness.
Look, they show your movie
carefully shot bluff
that ends here, without pity
at the applause of the black lady.
Hello theater, sparkling wine, fiancé
functionary, little dumb man
fried cake, match
little nut, fake American.
Original communist go home.
The two mummies did not speak
The one cripple and the other blind
while around the life spoke.
One fell down from the wall
and it was melted like honey in tea.
The other yelling whirled around
and disappeared between the ruins of the forums.
We do not know if this vision
wanted to narrate the ancient
or what would have happened
from here to there towards these zones.
In the whirling dance of the time
remains the open mystery
of who comes and goes away from here.
Tourists or visitors of the stars
who never had been pierced
by heated irons or burning carbons.
A woman disguised as fakir
saw the evil against the sun
and met the monster of the children.
She put him to sleep in her bed.
In the morning she unnailed him little by little
free to still do evil
changed into a colander
around for the roads of the country.
The monster had no more forces
bloodless fell to the ground
and the woman fakir understood
she should still be in circulation
to save other children.
Someone will say that she
had a deviate mind.
I attend at the new empire
childlike nightmare that comes true
guaranteed minimal duration.
Infamous destiny of the witness
behind the case rack of the good business
in the reserve of the expired men.
At Necropolis all is allowed.
The parts are inverted
who is right has fallen downwards
to shine iron shoes
and someone has suction hands
with which absorbs everything around.
Nobody chooses to be original
Umpteenth less evil
at least it is expired a little later
pressing the button on the neck to the right.
This place is no more yours.
These are the days of the band
that wakes up a lot of dying.
You claim to be alive
like when you passed here
excited by the gigantic magnolias
that died under the stones
diggings on the past, holes of the present.
And you insist to be the same
seeking in vain tracks, tests
of a loving existence
before the frost, of the stench
hate instead of the sighs.
The band trills inexorable
advances and wakes up other dead
when you will turn onwards
to scrutinize another goal.
The metro Ferro is the atelier
of a space designer
directly join to the hell
In the air it collects any stench
on the ground insists to dig
to shovel litter and cardboard.
It sets fire to the wood of the forests
takes a bath in the polluted water.
The forge is along the binary
colorings sometimes natural
pasted of blood and flour
well cooked in sunlight.
I don’t know what is its name
neither when it reached here
after blundering the route.
Now it is in recognition
of the ancient local arts
and leaves behind itself a trail
that rusts the metals
dynamite powder
as it had been used
for a distant war from here.
I sing a psychedelic song
hypnotized by a fantasy for you
an ancient delight that astonishes.
You are welcome. Take me
where play to count
always winning cards.
The pain is of second hand
diluted with oxygen and salt
not to let it blood to long.
Perform, pretend what you are
and noone resembles him.
Work to this clear mirror
until being captured by it
Narcissus at the full source.
Waste less time as dancer
for old women with stomachache
strippers in search of dowry.
Put a fig leaf on your head
to shelter from the sun too strong.
Seek a brain similar to yours
with a shriller voice.
In the case it really happened
in the temporary emplacement a land
named Necropolis. Meet the water.
Half heart ascended
in top to the Turkish palace
a long time sweating in the void.
Grandmother waves her fan
not knowing for how much she will be here
among us to be awake, to cure
the thousand wounds of every war.
I am attracted like magnet
where not yet I am admitted
me, from little recognized as relative.
I sell ice cream, fresh meat, rolls
at the corners of my Berlin
from the times of the filthy wall
against which I beat in bike
every day to go working.
Half moon in sky
is in my heart that beats
near the veiled great-grandmother.
What am I doing still here
at this round table
between the volunteers of every lost cause?
After the visit to the upper spheres
I have not more desire to go upstairs.
In memory of a nocturnal radio
and a daytime television
dedicated to me from afterlife.
Private code, criminal mental hospital
room in temporal reflection.
v, vanguard, s, suicide
missed foreseen death
d, dream only resource
r, hard reality, always.
Don’t count more the days
on the contrary is diabolical
waiting for of the lost code.
I bought a red jacket
from the south American with eastern.
He smiled, caressing my hand.
I thought for which hodgepodge
just swallowed at breakfast.
I looked at and I should not stay.
Every prince returns frog.
It is always the age of the escape
with what more shrewdness
to graze the soul of the things.
My jacket is pretty
even taken from a pusher.
When she came back here from the wall
she cried like a life
cut into pieces, derailed
under the light of a west
divided and absurd, an abacus
whose accounts never balanced.
Red card quickly ripped
with distant escape beyond curtain
then to return like nothing happened
between the ones who still believed
and never would bear
that photo among the snow.
A myriad of hungry
behind real bigwigs.
They changed name and style
to that world always in the dark.
The solemn statues are collapsed
but there is still who has them on.
Along the polluted river
we cannot continue.
Play a catchy piece
with the emerald green guitar.
Somehow we go beyond
and we will arrive, being together.
To the boarding, I smile
and light heartedly carry
the half broken amplifier.
A road artist
outside for hour of supper
has not age, bones, meat
he is a template, a scribble.
The times of shit
strumming on in vain.
He is a poor billionaire
lives as he had nothing
to possess only himself.
Velvety cream for Fatima
escaped from her Morocco
at acids of the fruit for Alima
who loves to be late in the evening
regretting her Somalia.
An infusion of youth
for my Corinne of Bucharest
who to the concert saw her star
and then returned in family.
For Alina, Andrea and me
a golden and painless arm
to drive away slanderous witches
shit rich men and idlers.
We are the girls of the train
that goes not anymore to puff
having hundred years a binary.
We have every age, two continents
graffiti of a year spent
awaiting in silence for a passage.
It is a wretchedness that commits
suicide. These fake notes
over the square anywhere watched.
You know they pretend
to be more Catholic than the Pope
and would cut off your head
if they had no more witnesses.
You aimed all beyond curtain.
For tomorrow. They search your things
ask if you have hidden babies
and what is that thread at the ear.
You are afraid when in the dark
You arrive to cross the wall
that it will not be enough to demolish
or send its pieces to the moon
because someone can begin again
in every instant to regret
the pieces eastward, spitting
vodka over Alexandr Platz.
They would help the poor ones
to become something one day.
They wrapped them in their flags
in crowded squares, faithful
asking food and job.
The masters soothed all
with continuous promises of help.
They went alone for lunch
in the luxurious places of the enemy
until they took its throne
and to the poor ones left the flags.
Someone hang himself with them, others
braver ripped them
to make of them a carmine dress.
The masters lost again
and ran after few corpses
quarreling like damned.
This in the magical childhood
in which the impossible was there
for Vlad, the ingenuous artist.
But as I did not believe
already adored the mute cinema
and threw at the bottom of the bucket
improbable opus omnia.
Until I remained alone
with the manifest of the Chilean poet
that faded with pizzini, dedications
to my unlucky birthdays.
The civil death was the flag
that the amaranth power extended
like haze inside curtain.
I am a troublesome witness
not a spy lived elsewhere
from my country, like Amal
who sang among the sand.
He recited a funereal dirge
for the roads of the necropolis
waiting for the golden skulls.
And to the dawn the shadow came
leaving the bearded man
down to count his truth.
Pure mathematician, locked up, fugitive
inside the book of the tortures
excommunicated by upper spheres.
Memoranda of faded pages
never read without coughing
frightened by clear omen
from the torment of a hard fate.
Leo from Morra told me
to pay attention on purges
to save myself from the grammar school
friends with the red telephone.
Activists, officials of party
wove and unraveled as their will
young lives just outlined
flow chart of discarded humans
because unreliable, free
or simply too capable.
The bearded man looks at me
and cuts with solid shears
my curtain of memories.
A air breath on my face
waked up me suddenly
and the world, Leo, informed me
of the death just happened
of the weird escaping man.
Do you remember the song from east
the poetry you wanted
like perpetual citizenship?
Here it is handled with kid gloves
not to leave imprints.
I became a little spy
to escape from hard labors.
Who killed the princess
and why nobody speaks
in this land tormented
by bogus martyrdoms, infested
by shit double-crossers
specialists in rabbits and cylinder
made up with care for hours
at the party of the fat camel
Wicked families send
to the hell, promising the paradise.
She should not die
only because her voice
bothered the deaf-mutes.
In the middle of the cornfield
my father and a raven wait for me
and smile pleased
of lies I have invented to me
to amuse me a little
tricking a time as witches
as architects without compass
and bankrupt antiquarians selling
with prices of reinforced concrete
the white necropolis
red on principle
and green not properly military.
In this moment it is not easy to find
a different house, that is mine
here where I would not like more to be.
If it was for me, to this point
I would buy a boat made to measure
where to enter and sleep
with the continuous lapping.
I am scared of the hurricane
if it comes in the night without name
because in the day we could be safe.
It’s enough remaining between the people
to have money to spend around
enter and go out from tidy mirrors.
Perhaps it is still soon. I remain here
but I am preparing the project
of a solid boat, and so on.
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