Prose
» Romanesque
» In a wild state
» Catherine Wheel
» Seven Sages
» Recreation
» Mandala
» Wandering riders
» Sabba
Poetry
» Beyond curtain
» A love poison
» Plautinus
» Blind world
» Plancton
» Jack O'Lantern
» Giotto's pastels
» Mab
» Preludes to Lutin
versione italiana
english version
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One thousand thanks, Moon
you that touch land still
in the November night
enclosed by three silver points
with the diamond sword of Orion.
They delivered an alive one, at nine of evening
thousand light years from here, to the Asian player.
He is not that a little bundle, he will not have billions from his father
in his country of football players and cheerleaders.
He will fly above a scorpion, with Panacea
who does not care anymore do even the plants
in this blind world of Erinni.
Every message is a dead notice
stuck with spits to the window
of sore towns. Short screws
do not follow the wrinkles of the time
and everything will be fake, but perfect.
Noone among you will have to face dark
what sun is not able to understand.
The blind dog of Comrade Pino
seeks, barking, the escape from the barber.
Where it is the Town of the Castle? Does it exist?
From the wall the poster with the remade face
of the most attractive woman of the world
above old announcements of competition
assemblies of the Italian Communist Party.
The mouth of Monica pulled upwards
sucks the last ray of visibility
behind plundered villas, to the black grave
of the painter of the empty bags
in the shadow of the statues of the future
raised to pharmacists and bank clerks.
Fog you that you smoke light
above the clumps just dug
from the tractors of Lego constructions
you don’t let see anything more.
The pork town has disappeared
submerged by the pink bricks
bt the vice of not making anything
of only seeing to a nose palm
wringing the pig eyes.
Elsewhere they learned
of the look on the distant from oneself
and the blind people watch in net
what happens on this planet.
While within the room of Notari
they grab the tail of the dog
reeling to the white stick.
He could not stay in the arena of the circus
between ravenous lions until the sunset
the fugitive. With a thread of blood in their teeth
he faced some of them. Then he left the Coliseum.
He found himself in the middle of a false war
where the wild beasts asked excuses
before rending the prey.
Then they became idle and depressed
smiling to the fugitive rescued
with a red residue of dribble
at the angle of the large jaws.
He observed quiet, far away
another winner empire.
How many days spent at the park of amusements
crossing the etruscan graves, the flying monsters
onwards and down with the new cat
and the memory of the first one
when I still dreamt to fly.
It is time that I wait still
for my travelling balloon
distributed in bizarre manner
wherever these days were born.
What meets, a foot behind the other
on time of Wien Waltz
with the stiff arms in ahead
the famous blinded goddess?
In my meridian, zero longitude
self services of a red corano
policemen and dustmen without uniform
that whistle the prohibition to live
and load new things to scrap.
And a couple of grandparents
inside the palace with cuirassiers
who invite to straighten the back
to measure the hair on the chest.
And a white white little man
who blesses and prays a lot.
And the general district of the commander
where they play football, then make themselves attractive
for the big party at the night club.
Just for a goddess without more blindfolds.
If someone was born as blind mouse
they force you to see the show
and if you go there, you regret bitterly
not to be born blinded.
Love arrived a little ago here
more neurasthenic than usual
and asked me to act as feline
starving in front of the eating fishes.
To have two filters, two measures
to close my eyes on humen
to see the lights of Christmas like
Jack-o’lanterns in the country cemetery.
To walk indifferent
above mountains of virtual bodies
to be unaware of the nearest dead who touch me.
I believe that Eros is exhausted
for overload of rear job.
He became wicked, less available
but I do not dream myself even
to contradict his orders.
I am a his creature
and without him I would not be myself.
He left to the other the stump lit
and come down towards the town clouded
in the most foreigner country is there.
He had a laughing shoe
and the other without nooses to bind
between begging crowded at the traffic lights
disfigured lansquenets, children
blinded by perfumes and toys.
The heretics sold pamphlets
against the hostile god, animal
that was a big success packing billions.
Someone eyed upwards
following a vegetable that drained down
from the walls, from the highest roofs
while crowds of terrified birds
hid themselves behind little laurels
still there miraculously.
Humen sometimes blunder themselves
thinking to be important
but they are not the centre
of this incredible universe.
It is illuminated admirable in a place
elsewhere it sinks in the rounds
of the hell of my great god
with underground fire, abnormal waters
sneezing air before the crazies
think about killing themselves for true hunger
for troublesome thirst of power
or only for boredom, to feel themselves alive.
He went back loaded with food and wine
towards the stump still lit
miraculously under the ashes.
A green bug is invoking
to enter protected from ices
but in the house there is the cat
and he would eat it for breakfast.
I am here among snakes relatives
who drive cars like sardines
metallized, polished with catarrhal spits
bottled up and aged spouses
fat stepsons of spineless.
I turn back the Indian clock
that never marked
anything but I wanted.
At midnight o’clock
the flea puppet goes out
to buy peanuts and spinach
to become a lot strong
at the cinema my small west.
I am the trill of the robin
sheltered upwards behind a smile.
So disappeared from the horizon
the dumb oilman and the pusher
the son of a bitch, the smuggler of diamonds
the drug addict inside the dark caves
who dreamt the lights of the world limelight
with his fanatical, the human bombs
the last idea of my rough century.
The hundred and more wives in labour pain
escape towards the military hospitals
dreaming to exchange dresses and other
of not to see anymore goats and rocks
but vigorous palms moved from the wind
while they strip themselves slightly.
Disappeared the sly sheikh, a little old man
who threatened the apocalypse. He flew away
in the convulsive cough of the raged sea.
The prophecy has confirmed at the instant
when for fear I stopped
reading Candid of Voltaire. Wait for
that the celebrity of the turban Satan
sink to the bottom devoured by the sharks.
After centuries and centuries randomly without creation
perfect or senseless as it is, the nature.
Who knows how much time should pass
why they could see these days of mine
like simple senseless setbacks
in years only fat and peaceful.
You should choose between the puppets of regime
and the wild revolt of the whores
or child warlike seated over the bed
of cardboard of the poodle of square Navona.
Now it the story is about to end.
Then amuse yourself at rummy
to the fair of the end of the world
where they expose the last examples
of television presenters, the humen
civilized, posterized, baby fooded
before the water era
that not any dotty luminary
was able to expect so immediate.
Dear Dante, if you are in paradise
pray for who are not safe more.
If you are in the limbo you are down here
enough recognizeable for the hood.
If you find yourself in purgatory wait
for me to arrive and I carry you upwards.
Into the hell there are all the other
thanks to your farsightedness.
Meanwhile the baby displayed
the sword of a loving king.
They are the thoughts, the weird conditions
of a pure life, as alive nature
to draw near me to the dear truthful ancestors
not grumbling pleases or wrong laurels.
Like the slow passage by the side
of unknown forces in the morning
when I fight against laziness and virtue.
And it is insignificant the contrast
between stomach accustomed to the vampires
and the sublime kilometric verse
of the unknown singer, my dead nature
costant, framed in the English way, hung up to every wall.
Or peasant with the ladder in shoulder
the long long slowpoke train
deposits me between provisions and hunger
in a Rome where the black wolf
has not more to feed its twins.
The Urbe is a farm house disassembled
roof broken through, walls bombed.
Little man with the sickle, little man with the saw
to make firewood, without wisdom teeth
I bet that you are there from always
in this rusted enclosure. Today I saw
sleeping crowned in painting
sold off from grandchild gained
to the market of the fleas in the deep night
with a money like the fireflies.
And yet I would experience still
to approach the cheek
to my extreme town
and to feel a swarm of ecstasy
as when we kiss for the first time.
Riding your solid thighs
with the skin burning to your undone beard
with the cat that strongly purrs.
I am your princess
In the empire of the sleepy dead.
Still I have secrets
to suspend your quietness
to turn into slaves
regretted dictators.
Long tracks, graffiti of dying
warriors of other lands, from the solar hole
of the rounded imperial graves
in the fine land of abundance
for those whose pockets are swollen.
The flowing shadows spy us disconsolate
exclaiming each others: "That misfortune!
neither gods, nor mother nature
they wandered at a guess
between forests and towns, with sea far away
and a sky terrorized by black sparrow hawks.
At least they could stop a little to breathe
They could have the solid sight of us".
When I was little I saw in tv a country
of lawyers with more than one wrist watch
cover with little car the race tracks.
Jewels and panettoni rained
on the actresses of curtain raiser
while they made up themselves as Butterfly.
In the dream it seemed a pool
in which it slipped between gold and incenses
only to have desire and time.
Then the lawyers are dead dried up
and the law became woman pope
that struggles in provinces, with potatoes
between tarot and invoices. The shrew
has rigged balances, of those
that surcharge at the local market.
The subjects are hostile to the rest of the world
to my smiling starry empire.
They curse from the gruff periphery
voted to an extinction programmed with care.
They sell postcards and small dolls
of a past of bogus pleasures.
As adult I see in net
banknotes flying in the air
credit cards expired
a country dud chequed
a fraudulent bankruptcy
with grave diggers, ugly birds of the bad omen
rubbing their hands satisfied.
You went unaware with flowered dress
between photographers with the same name
dead adolescents at the cinema
for the curious illnesses of the man.
Its device is upsetting
Compared to the threads of steel of the robot
and when he blows up he is a kamikaze to throw.
Beyond the soul of the world, the star laugh
everyone runs finally on the dead horse
an implacable symphony, beating deafening
of rats, across the fields of battles
almost always lost. But the warm breath
tarnishes the glass and flies to your empire.
Buy another flowered dress
when the sun peeps in.
Miki had two putative parents
a feminine father, affectionate
with smock and ready omelette.
Her mother, a man of sterling character
conservative, executive, guard to the garrison.
The imaginative uncle with top hat and big finger
incited to the work, to the escape, to the beauty
to jump down from the trains in race
towards the concentration camps
for poor shits and crawlers in line
fed free in change
of lobotomies
toothdrawers without local anaesthesia.
She had two cats
the black one
and the striped one
found in Venice Square
behind the Altar of the Homeland
left when he was a month old by intellectuals
left for a long vacation.
She is the Japanese girl
with small suitcase at the stop
of the bus for the airport in a day
of general strike of the transports.
I saw only an aeroplane
that raised
in nosedive
without any passenger on board.
You are the best friend
I was able to find now.
You have
a cross-shaped penknife in pocket
you burp and fart
when
the wicked housewives envy
your sharpened ankles, regal.
You throw from the car in race
potatoes and skins of orange
over the sow town.
You eat pens, pencils
you smoke, drink, you get rid of it
of every advice of the doctors.
You are a peach, to eat
In the right place, without glasses.
You pursue boys oxygenate
of a far away, kind Mongolia.
Without these sporadic mirages
me and you we cannot amuse ourselves
with Swiss knife in pocket
lethal in the appropriate points.
Pregnant hens, dumb ducks
spy us from behind the mirror.
I will call you Rossella, Barbara
Celina, Alicia, Gabriellina
Cinzia, Pinuccia, Stefania
Duli, Lucia, Gigia. Something
that remembers me our film
the roaming through the peninsula
up and down for the boot of the cowboy.
Now I am alone to the edges of the road.
The blind mice ended the cheese
and are going out from the holes as crowds.
If they do not find anything better the poor fellows
they will want usually our blood
raising flags, wasted flags.
Dark thinkers imprisoned
bottom to a sink in disuse
enclosed by thick grid behind the church.
You live weirdly, son of a phantom
you should curb yourself to the present
since you didn’t still have anything
like adolescent into others’ hands
who forget with you their troubles.
I shelter in your deep forge
where you build comets, meteors, meteorites
that Noone wants in the way.
I am not able to bend myself to land
accepting a humiliating condition
unruly, dismissed from the service.
I plunge myself into a small bottle
and who finds it is capable.
Don’t frighten the workforces
there to restore the old castle
cause we stay without walls at the bivouac.
If I go to end in the wrong round
remembers that you have been mattering for me.
They carried out your television
because you never paid subscriptions
and the cell phone, because you did not consume the cards.
Less badly that you still exist, redhead boy
all ruffling, gone out from the pond of the frogs
otherwise where could be the future?
Follower of a feline deity
that does not get upset facing anything
noone wants you
because your pocket and your sock are pierced
you gulp noisy like a mule
without doing it deliberately, heedless of the others.
But I saw you wandering
for the tuscan main street in climb.
You are also freckled
that do not go away when you are grown up.
Less badly the planet
turns around hidden.
A kind mummy is dying
a portrait of Latin country
with the language that sounds mocking
and says little yes, yes. Oriana
I am sorry like to lose money
at the casino in the middle of the desert
where they entered only in dream.
I paid the ticket
But lost it for distraction.
The mummy quite preserved
does not resemble to me sure
nevertheless buried early
packed for the exile towards the Empire
I grieved for it. I understood
its thin suffering.
I do not look like the poor sphinx
I am near its sunset.
The desecrating, unusual goddess
leaves some sincere writing.
Cop big nosed Florentine
unfriendly like my father.
I looked from here to the moon
before school to the nuns.
She flew to the sky, smoking
in company of the astronauts.
Flies off suddenly and goes
a cupid, a marquis of the garlic
who aspires to be the Sun King.
She wants to hold lean attendances
without engagement, sometimes
knowing to which pay visit.
Freedom of isolation.
But noone stays with another
if he cannot disarrange his hours.
He is a greedy cowardly child
who seeks and wants the America near home.
He thinks as villain, pirate
with an eye, a sawed leg
the death painted in face.
Perhaps he is so alone, because he has like
himself, distracted, little
Without hemostatic nooses. No matter.
He will be for his business
he will try stiletto heels
knowing that he could be sociable
when and how he wants.
But there is not a next time.
In the time I sail light
leaving to the shoulders a threadbare nightmare
hung to the greasy pole.
I change home, every time behind a word
to amuse myself at least a little
waiting for the messengers of the empire
in the days as headhunters.
Narrow space, eternal temporality
towards the foggy rays.
I am a mountain of delight
to climb still
after Michele Angel
chiseled on day and night
for long endless years.
It cannot escape anymore
nothing that is cheerful.
Is complicity the happiness
something else than laxative pain!
After a concentration camp
disguised as kind farm
dear one day country of mine
now obsessed reserve, alcoholic
without Indians to howl goodbye.
There is no more the breath of the death
close to the next star
while he looks at and opens the mouth
a lot near the boy astonished.
The small shadow spreads
to the large passionate country
to its enormous spinal column.
The semblance thanks with ceremony
reading radiant stupidities.
Has it always been so?
Scenery of wood and nails
around the actor who slowly mimes
the fall of the rain.
They will do another pope today.
All they wait for with turned-up nose
that the continents join still
in the mark of the god crucified
by his envious and powerful fellows.
He did not promise paradises and virgins
but an happy death, the hope
that life could never end.
The ancient bells will resound
and someone will die with him
with the smile of who is satisfied.
That the choruses of the young souls
save us from the present ordeal
from the stupid who hate us
because we play and dance
facing the coffins closed.
A high Polish pope
will keep watch from the sky above Cracovia
over us, on the next fisherman
who will ferry unaware Jesus.
between the men it is so
and Buddah and the child
between the plants and the animals.
Then the stars, the initial flight.
Noone after the bizarre gods
will be able to say someone:
"Go and fight, kill for me".
Not any poet will write of such torture.
And the oblivion will wrap amazing
every assassin without face.
Open your eyes, sharpen the intelligence
now or never more
blind world.
Grandmother Moore leafs through the album
of her life amusing.
She tells me of a train, of a funeral
of some letters found
of a country outside from the land.
With tumblers and stupid journalists
powerful friends, but lacking freedom
of its boundless dignity.
And she trespasses in the bitter fast
in the work, in a long life
in pleasures stolen to the evil.
With the bullies shut away in the enclosure
of the unbreakable mirrors.
The old woman lost in Trinità dei Monti
the earring of diamonds, ended up
into the poster of the vendor of fruit
or under the foots of the whore
who wanted to be an actress
Or to marry a goleador.
Grandmother Moore when was youngster was named
in another way. But then
took her stage name
in a little commendable place
entrusted to the case, to the abandonment
where everything can happen always
in the high-ranking slums of Mommy Rome
flower to the buttonhole of the magnaccia Italy.
If they opened you now the brain
they would find different threads detached.
And yet there it is the laughter, the smile
but without thought, without sense.
There is a roar without resonance.
You find yourself to the court of the hearty eaters
protected by a thick barbed wire.
Flower of the snake, acorn for the pigs
to land, stranger in prayer
under the cross fire of snipers.
If they opened you the heart, they would find
valves out of order and perhaps
an only thorn put there by yourself
to remember you that life is precious.
A light after the explosion
and I am here still
with the illusion to stroll
for immense uncultivated fields.
Where will be the peace
that I cultivated with care
born with me, profound planet.
I saw games and jokes
and then only the deceitful death
that was concealed behind every man
with or without treacherous uniform.
Like feline that is not given food
I hardly pay for futile things
happy days, imaginary
and a splash of beauty on.
The fact is that between pain and blood
noone feels anymore
to think something bright.
Perhaps I am putting out myself slowly
without knowing it, in a wrong latitude.
I am the original reality
the rest is imitation.
Something turns inside me, spiteful
that makes fill everything painless
curiosity as hand cut.
Inert, watching the rising diffused light
excited by the falling curtain
with noise of heavy draperies
on the heavy darkness without cues.
Noone of you humen
can resist me, or be behind me.
I am swifter, surprising
and every hell is not the same
every paradise is free.
I am what I am
I challenge to understand something.
It is preferable to follow the artists
with their white pebbles
but I am the master way.
It is not true that you can create me
to your entire satisfaction
since what is in my head
is neither flash, nor thunder
my fall to open sky.
Truth, advanced to every fantasy.
Dig with a gross hoe
and perhaps you will find satisfaction
dwelling satisfied
to some of mine many thresholds.
There the poetic refrains live
the pure formulas of mathematics.
The complication vanishes
in algorithms and rhymes.
The awake was quick
like word that dulls grassy
after atmospheric hastes.
Dealt to take the framework
that walked like phantom.
It was there, you still didn’t used it
but it waited for you to catch you out
inheritance of muscular ancestors
dischargers of vitality
together with boredoms and pains.
Where you will settle your complaints
something will be born of amusing
and it is not than the beginning
of an adventure, an experiment.
The death could fuck itself
Here it cannot arrive sure.
Someone calls him on the airwaves
to a different life
like the one of the cloud
blown inside a thunderstorm.
He waits here, in front of the church
of being carried to the ceiling of the sun
without burning himself, because he has no father
to ground, to yell not to go.
What has he anymore to lose?
Better to risk.
Passed the year of the desires
of rose candy floss
the year of the continuous ice creams
of the jam of cherries.
Perhaps it is so that we age
exploding in weird remembrances
of childlike desires ever fallen into disuse.
I mirror and I see myself.
Like incomplete restless adolescent
never I learned to monitor myself
facing nothing that it is good
attractive, full like the round sun
above the clouds of the summer evening.
And I am happily sad
to be at the world, like when
I came back in bike from school
after enormous loving disappointments
interrupted by cerebral carousels
that ended always to stain
sheets and card, card of diary.
It is funny if someone will see me
old, when I will be smaller
and young of like I was
of like I was never been.
It is not mattering the year of the chocolate
of the cigarettes to gust, of the wine
of the only bear health fanatic
for the fear of the liver cirrhosis.
How much the year of the red nose
of apache in saddle to its horse crazy
the year of the round cheeks
of the eyes as almond marron glacé.
Of the necklace that is a rosary
blessed by the new pope
year of a dolce stile novo
In the land of my true fathers.
Ramone dreams its prey
exotic with the long tail
that vibrates like serpentine
when displays its white and black wing.
Ramone seeks not to see
the humen in the garden, but only her
that free circulates in the air
chimera of a desirable planet.
It is my rare sokoke
affectionate gift of the Urbe
auspice of health and prosperity
adopted like senseless conscience.
The castle goes on fire
the tower is about to fall
on the golden cathedral, on the dishes of Alì Babà.
Away the eagles, a dove, the horse
behind crossed swords and stars.
The moon is divided in four segments
while the docile ox rests
two dragons raid the raising bridge.
Three crowned heads and three tiaras
hidden behind the casket of the treasury.
This and other there was, a time
at Borg-Unto. Now I graze nine daisies
eat six pancakes, look at a flying pike
I fear the lion, the crowbar
I turn the wheel, I break the bolt
I dream an omnivorous mongoose.
But does not appear the incendiary angel
to four branches of olive, to the wall
of the poet. He escaped he too
in the age of the noble lilies.
It is a painting never painted
like those of a holy man,
the nightmare of the emperor fades, vanishing.
The story of the learned Vasari
is not told anymore. They teased
the florist, the glass woman came down to the well.
Only some coarse remained there
with unmistakable accent, with short breath
that it would claim to be still
coat of arms of a nice Country.
I am together the innocent dead
who do not hope anything.
I am here by chance. Is there an escape?
My feet are boiling fire
in this hell that hungs up.
The motionless air kills the pacifists on the road.
I want to free myself from this deadly trap.
I should drink so much water. Where it is? I am hungry.
there is not much people passing
it seems to be in the middle of the desert.
I have only cigarettes to throw away
and a fist of rice and dreams.
If they touch Rome, better fate for them
is to jump all in the air, the cursed!
Because the Coliseum will reopen to the games circensi
with lions held in strict with an empty stomach
before coming down in track, and to insert themselves
inside the burning hoops of the Urbe.
Robust tamers above their elephants
they will whip the old camels, torn out the hair.
Some monkey will be climbed where will be able.
It will creep down from the Pincio the fat python of the zoo
and I will enlist myself in the foreign legion.
The hatchet already is buried in garden.
If they touch Rome, I will dip the pen
directly into the arsenic to write better.
That no you are approached to the Fori!
They say it is the age of the wolfs
and we have nothing to fear
since here all it was born
From a generous wolf, it tests.
It does there it is of more mattering
of the stupidities, those ridiculous things
that hold us alive, next day day
the inane resources of a twisted mind
that does to rejoice and to suffer also the body?
Sometimes you suffice a word, a misunderstood gesture
a glass, a cup, a mouthful
a raging fantasy, a need
Satisfied after long to suffer.
And the calendar is moved to hand.
I hope that it is so for the world
and for everyone of you, passengers
Neighbors and distant. Also towards the turn
that lots believe the last.
It is done to say, to lighten
the luggage of the intermediate turns
sometimes weighing, too heavy.
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