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
|
 |
Silly Smokes
I finish white petal
agitated from the wind of July
you know that I is not dead
and alone these words
I wanted writer, in the last day.
We are the vampires of the air.
All fear our flight
to ali explained, freely unaware
of every ceremony on the body
Liquefied and full of worms.
Silly, because therefore
You insist to cry yourself?
It sweeps rather against wind
the petals of your garden
After the meager, false downpour.
You give again together me, Silly
Empty, not to allow Flux
or to any other breath of life
that in you it takes shape
invoking from the empty space
of to remove you the magìa of the shells
of the animal stone
And of the pine cone that it is opened and it is closed.
Not to lose the smell of the cat
And the small ragnetti skipping.
It remembers the salamander just been born
And the dead one, been born blind.
To times the nature is cruel.
The biggest streetlight
it is the moon
that it comes down to kiss of silver
the grating of the room
Like cobweb of iron.
The prisoner has two keys
to go out in the cloister:
Vilkas is the second one downwards
Mourning, the first one upwards.
They is not separable.
In the bucofessura the balance is
Of the eternal divine shape.
Pain and to please.
I go forward in a sky
with clouds scale to scale
afterlife, on my ace
bathed of tears
over fly, desire without meat
troubled water, restless falls.
Stranger is dirty.
I overflew my look.
The tropical bird
and two Mexican doves
the two rabbits, the false bike
with a big wheel and a small one
tha true one, the first bike, hung to a nail.
The carillon with the little bird in a cage
that sings Lara's theme of doctor Zhivago.
The lighter for floral ceremony
of the time when my grandmother worked in France
and the cornflower spray of Marc Chagall.
This is me, in the eternal suitcase to arrange.
Changeling.
I let rise from nothing
small objects, fabulous words,
metèco, and do you want that I don't care
of the visible prints of the human beings?
Don't upset
my fields of camomile
cracked, thirsty
and dry falasco
ground become parched from the burning sun.
Leave them without water
and they will perfume more.
They are the sad earth
over which you walk
watching falling stars
Xanto. Fiumecavallo.
Heartfelt morning of transparent
wave, smooth
saint purity water.
It has been a meteorited,
earthquaked night green-azure.
Now a child searches shells
and the ravenous gull
eats fish, audaciously.
I come from the schism of the invisible poets.
I steal from the life of the human beings
only little full moons
and some conflict of love.
Otherwise I compile the directory
of the strange things I see.
The lights of the road
switch off at my passage
and I am always going to leave the muddy planet.
Sparrow
If you want food for the winter
you will have to be kind with me
And to make you see every so often.
Sii except for reserved
and except for monotonous of the cat
That smiagola of continuous to eat.
Who it moved my games in garden?
The yellow wind of October
the I recall imperious of the foreigner
My desire of him.
Or it the scorpion was mortifero.
Perhaps the shell and the stone
they played between of them
betraying the stone to shape of rooster
And the other melancholy shell.
I do not know the magical signals
But Lutin of secure is passed here.
Large moon that you rise yourself
above the horse of the emperor
next to the dark statue of the rebel
It masks of white death of plaster.
You are an incomparable tailor.
You enclosed of tulle color of the wine must
the victory that hurls a spear
Above the chest of the lovers enraptured.
Nude it was the sweet stone
before they opened the curtain
And the crazy Willie yelled and laughed.
The dancing children stop the eternal town
To reach the sacred forest to Venus.
It dazzles, or moon of the chestnuts:
between a little one I will be born at the delight
Of the divine natural vitality.
I am your animal
farò what you want
Preserving my innocence.
Outside animal
light, soft
subservient, playful
I liberate, depraved, insatiable
childlike animal
The large cart has moved in sky
with deafening tintinnìo eastern
and wheels arrugginite
From the ice-cold looks almanacs.
Here a fruscìo of garments
Nude body trèmulo.
Gotten ready, dònnola: is it now.
Not to say that you are been you
To dissolve the reins of the horse.
It does it will happen at the constellation
That it is hurling in the empty one?
Zhìdao. Its shadow wraps me
ear of elf, eyes extended
The warlike eastern.
Strong arms of alberello gnarled
attached movements of animal
Fierce, of sudden attack in the darkness.
Zhìdào.
Lèmur, short and red nails
you are the childish lethargy
that it plays in shapes colored
sight reflected in white and black
From under onwards, the happy nothing.
In the sleep your idìoma is more transparent
And it is moved to organetto zingarello.
When the oblong moon itself riflette
on the sassolini of silver bluette
an invisible pen is awakened
And it shades lonely on the white walls.
The flirt laughs light
in the game of the twelfth dream
Cruelty and restless gaiety.
Oh, stunned, incantamento child
It lies physical, mental body!
You marked your presence
In the palm of the mine small hand.
I kissed the yours, sfiorandola.
You servirò in beauty and freedom
My sire. And already we flew
beyond our hanging gardens
Without to look at back.
Another rut was born
it traces real, secret life
From some perfect part.
You be inside.
I go out.
And if my race ends soon
Better, so I rest myself.
An alone tear came down
From the left eye of Marion.
I am always elsewhere
with the clouds that they go lens
It is not known where.
I chase the love of a brother
Living a lot well.
My sterile delight is a look
on the baby that it plays a hymn
while it goes the old musician
in the crowds of the fountain
Consecrated to sing the war.
In there I was christened
Bard, and dressed of feathers.
The fragments of the beauty I am
Itself in the now ingenuous on the sky.
The wounded angel from Love
It is within its golden dock.
Lunatic spoke at if same without that some earthling
It is awakened from deep sleep.
It was alone to be born and to die
Every day, every evening of the world.
If the pain is so
it lives the vital pain
disguised delight from insomnia
Lunar headache. Paciosa
Pisciata in mouth to the truth.
Plume writes with three capricious pens
That they duel always between of them.
The red one to want alone to sweep
the blue affection the moon
And it thanks the sky.
The silver one, the lazy one
it is turned in your belly
Before reviving, still.
I am like you, Rome ruinous
absence mortifera, you fly essential
pax des deux, elegant tail
Of age-old bird.
I closed the eternal childhood
Inside the music box of the future.
there it is a skull, a back
And a look veils of pleasure.
Thin Suspence. Rome conceited.
Water of Courses, tourist pool
Click and hearts between the winged breakers.
To the edges it goes for a walk the death.
The insomnia of the ancient rite
It turns on if same without I recall.
Expanse of exhausted that breathes
to the shelter from the sidereal cold
Or warm stench, animal to the fresh one.
The children of the world
To you for you with the possible dèi.
ìncava sauna, physical purity
After joyful embraces.
Unhappy water to the castle of the Quirinale
forgetful statues, headless, without hands
You disfigure from pitiless anger.
The white shadow of the dead moon
It is stronger of the ugly Dioscuri.
To the usual one they walk the crazy one and the poet
With their witty signs.
Never they are invited to the ceremonies.
Unhappy wind sweeps via.
Muschiosa cave scratched
from orchi and kissed from witches
my wall of the I plant
where I left the childhood
With hopeless arrogance.
Arrogant violent freedom
Of the victim on the executioner.
And 'the cave eunuch
In fund to the Byzantine staircase.
Between stone and stone goes
Furtive the cat Zorro.
And while the sun of the sunset
sgattaiola towards the remittance of the sky
I dream that my assassin
You become a naughty child.
I
There was the nettle, an emblatted joust
the epiphany with stockings and broom
over rivers of nocturnal piss.
Restless Navona, you hide
the terrible crime, inexpressibile dishonor.
The Fountains hush moribund
a hidden and outlandish cemetary
behind of you, in the palace
where the unfortunate assassin inhabits.
II
Enormous Navona resounds
it's a big bed with three places
infinite orgy of holy moans
while someone spy the hell circles.
III
And the beautifulr horse
exited from the fountain
to walk towards Sant'Angelo
with glossy water hooves.
Your pigeons, Navona
flew in free fall
within another frescoes.
And Zefiro blew spiteful
on the support of sleeping candid.
In the room of Pan
There it is the barrow of the dolcetti.
It does not ruin it, I am good.
The baby in its bed is startled
Under the covered, I do a flower.
Still I did not know
that the God spied on me
and it would have found me
Maliosa.
Tonight, in the middle to the earthquake
you have me search to square Arena
Grey gilet of silk, clear eyes.
You removed me sweet
knowing ch' was useless
mine beloved child
Nick, the Nazi.
Deluge of Odino, Wotan has get loosed
Eolo blows strong on the corpse
of the submerged poet and never found again.
The dispersed youthness makes fun in the shelter
in caverns oxen of the palaces
the Americans within the vagina of stone.
And Rome big whore partenopea
mixes blood in great golden goblets.
As soon as the sacred thunderstorm ends
new pagans will be born
down on the tibetan fligh of steps
flowery of delicate whispers.
I danced within myself
black, dirty, lonely, bad
in order to go back to the clear motion
of the fruttering of wings
in words seeded from the fate
inside me, dishonourable heir
of the loving minstrels.
Orfeo is in sky
and Euridice underground.
I am in them both
mortuary marble harmony
inflamed sea of August
limpid aèdo of the north
come down to the red hells.
Oh floral air of May full of pollen
exultation of graceful omens!
The joyless season is ended
eunuch, and grows up the advent
of gifts, joyful sighs.
An assize of awkward
young guys, and slavering old men
declaims with loud voice the exquisite
qualities of her Queen of hearts.
Vague Etaìra beyond the courtesan company
searching for beautiful spirits.
Blaky, the black cat
is flown in sky, dreaming.
Now he takes a walk on the diminishing moon,
dark, bad like he.
He will bite the tail to comets
vain, will play with stars
making them fall out of spite
on deserts and disowned mountains.
What will I do with the sky
with the sun and the moon
and all the stars, and the seasons
and the memories, and me?
In your green only wraps me
the vitality of the oblivious narcissus.
Bewitched stone moon
branching frame of Chateaubriand.
Down there the papal dome
lies dipped in pale ash
and you triumph, heated moon
in thousand votive lamps
for the wedding of Eros and Psiche.
One bell sound a dirge
died. And the artists dream
with the wind, in the nests of merlons.
Sand of oil, tasty
water of lamb and rosmarino.
The bad jellyfishes open themselves like stars
and Neptune gets drunk with Eolo
in the tourbillon of the dead heroes.
Disembarked Enea dispersed
with admirable goddesses to protect him
in his mirages, raising
borders of garments aquamarine
and the unexpected aroma of the pines.
On the avenue of the hundred lamps
stops raining the gilding of the angel in the fig trees
and from the square of the warriors
of the seasons, of the Bible
the powder of the twin cupolas
with some bat is scattered that announces the dusk.
I am to your shoulders, caput mundi
faithful esquire.
The red sunset comes down from the air
for the wide scale
to the room of the child
who wasted time in the sleep.
Two merlons remember its name.
They uncovered the buried eyes of the doll
buries in the long centuries.
The night surprises unexpected
the alive ones to admire the column.
I breath you, ancient Rome
liquified wafer to the altar of godnesses.
I invent you, and I eat you, and I drink you
intense Rome, like the first and the last
love, sacrificed to the senses and the muse.
My mind is your pomerio.
Bones and crowned hair
from the interlacement of the gulls.
The wide sleep of the Pantheon
covers the crews of Orlando
and the look of Thomas on the kings.
Two drunkards, the poodle lady
the old spotted female dog
are fixed hosts of the void
interrupted from the passage of a Phaéton.
I will fly so high
like lunar chip of stone
gull of the altar of the native land
that only the kisses of the children of May
will be able to touch me, and meows
and thick stars waste
precious venusian sisters.
I will rise in an aromatic carpet
astride of a rainbow.
And will be my assassin
to die endured. I am Scottish ancient
Quaver that sleepwalker
takes a walk with cheerful hornpipe
over the wall of the embattled castle.
The earth winced to the sea
and a cherub wrote absorbed
with the plume lost by the gull.
The human beings were troubled
like impelled forward from the moon
and it was the solar september
the wait to the flood of the October fruits.
Every death that comes
is prelude to the life, the dance of the wine
and the rebirth of Lutin
with lute and spinet.
Mediterranean Mater without eyes, neither mouth
great falling breast, wrinkled belly, envious
of the foreign beauty, that pollutes
your ocean with pure diamonds.
Oh mater hateful of temples without gods
only energy without restoration.
I am the guardian of the Greek ruins
the loving of its invaders.
II
Dont be deceived. Still Gods
are caretakers of the columns
and wall up alive capitals
punishment to serious sins.
The doves fly in the holes of the time
and black monks go around restless
sad in their misdoings
like if, weird omen,
touched to them the profane.
My name is Dindon, laughingstock
of the Italian monsters. I dream
the country of Landerneau, sweet
toward Singapore, with emigrants from the Baltic Sea
or from the slim Lithuania. I live in the Capitol.
I walk with sailing ship in head, and an opaque sphere
hoping that it could become the unknown world.
And over on me sleeping
watch the sacred careful gooses.
Candido is going again to the ocean
fragrant of wooded mushrooms
storage capacity from the lost stony ground
from the spiteful mountain nymph.
He is behind a lantern
sitting on the border of nostalgia
that bathes only the heart.
Today he completes eighteen years
and thinks to a young girl
touching his magic beard.
The Aèdo is innocent
if to his passage is opened
the calm lake, and the train
derails toward the impossible
casting dream and stones.
The inspiration of his ancestors is
in the cathedral without saints
in eye pure, in the open wing
indelible mark, musical
smile of Monna Lisa.
A pure artifice advances, a trill
forgery as the only truth, true
like the nose of Pinocchio and Cleopatra.
Aim the fountain without water, jousts stopped
eats rosy cotton candy.
And in the calm vegetation, with animal vivacity
lay sister, Quaver, with your friend Don Miguel.
There is nobody going down the steps
of the old theatre, declaiming
the script of the vespertilioes aèdi..
Only amazed spectator: audience is the statue
of the godness of the gone wheat to badly.
A light touch of celesta passes
over the buyers of relics;
and solemn disguises them with pìetas
the shade of the dead moon.
Just veiled Ottobrata, ashy.
The small fountain widow of the clearing
is left desolately desert.
Yet don't fall still the leaves
they are persisted to bloom the oleanders.
Only a knob must and acorns
tired cupids, quarrelsome
are angels of the silent season.
The wicked century is going, finally
like butterfly to hurdy-gurdy position.
My country is at war.
I shelter me in the catacombs, among will-o'-the-wisps
in company of the animals and of the plants.
I have only the verbs to play in the evening
when Lucifer polishes immodest
and the moon is icy remembrance.
A polychromatic soul
pushes me toward east.
Give me three caravels
and I will be a bold explorer
who will not cry on the wrong calculations
neither on the hostile winds.
If I will be wrong rout, still
one time I will go back
and then I will leave again with veil open.
Within your spoilt walls
in the flower vases flooded
with the grass that grows among the stones
Rome angry, windy, marine
storm of Jupiter destructive.
You lifted every my terror.
Now you are a mischievous father
and a mother that gives food.
Me, adoptive, wandering semblance.
The godness went down from the temple
and chased away angry
her joyless plaintiffs.
She exclaimed proudly: "go to Fasània
race of genìa and idlers".
She had around hawaiian dancers
marines and playful seals.
the children howled, and the cats
were lions ready to pieces them
in the dream of the imaginary Colosseum.
Over a carpet made of honey and chestnuts
in the sunny storeroom for the winter
sleep wound from the red pumpkins
gilded pears and purplish fig trees, Bruja.
You know the hanging decoder
read the laying of the water
and the path of the celestial bigas.
When the wind of the grey November
shakes its freeze mantle
purple for wine and fire
the bums are roll up mild.
and you fly without wings, up there
over the altar of the country.
From the bad ogre she ran away barefoot
toward the stairways of Magnanapoli.
She did not mail anymore magic letters
and she placed haul tired in front of the house
of reparations of the dolls.
There was phosphorate in sky, and a sweet velarium
covered the stage of Callìope
inviolate cornucopia, guarded fragrance.
When the wind of the Asian plateau hisses
and the oceans ripple threatening
only the strokes of a great clock
and the brief looks of the lovers
lead in the bright oasis of Amadeus
where the insane, rhythmic words
capture the acute revenues of the blackbirds.
Contemplative to the window
I camp in my green hermitage
listening the burana carmina
and legendary deedses of the Trobadòr.
It's raining slowly slowly. Eliosa
the blackcap, circles charming.
Radiant is the dark noon
in the peace of a grassy grave.
Ancient minuet on dreamy Dulcinea
what whispers the Old Norse tongue
but she wants approach toward the caliente south.
She has lost the atlas, and the arabs
surprised her amazing Cervantes
with coins of shining gold.
Honey, blood, beloved Jimènez
not finds an ardent rider
against the shovels of the windmills!
From the holes of the time, the voice of Pasquino
forecasts Slavic and oriental messages
and madam Lucrezia is with the ucraìne
in the Christmas intoxicated of holy wine.
To Saint Bacchus, oh, how much they regret
their white nights of Mother Russia.
In the dark shine the round grandmothers
with the cheeks like cider of apple.
The girls of Pasquino with the red lip
and the eyes of the cold of border
chirp as swallows without spring.
They mens go with foreigns
for a soft bed and a kitchen.
The little elf of the violet stone
has confused hours, days, monthes, years
centuries, eternity. How many sighs
Romeo, within the glassy earth.
Abandon every torment
reach me in the brushwood.
We will recite lines of verse consecrate, manages unadvised.
The dance will surprise us toward the new moon.
I will not tell anymore our secrets.
There, then, sometimes, always.
In Staircase Street I meet the lovers
Curzio, Gabriel, the wicked Vincent.
I breathe on their footsteps of solitary
like a faithful little dog. Later
the foreigners scrutinize me severe
because I violated every rule, laughing.
I am Juliet of the free spirits.
I have profaned the Mediterranean graves
welcoming in my northern soul
every wandering vacuity in the wind
Who is that poor man, gentlemen?
He versifies dark with the windmills
reproaches Moira and All Saints' Day
if he doesn't hiss, he will go straight on the handcart
that passes at the sound of the bell.
has he bite from a tarantula?
He seems Mercuzio in north wind
but he is only the pale Stenterello
that lost his minstrel grace.
Giselle with the tutu of Manet
exposes the death in via Margutta
while she bathes at red lights
in company of a whore.
And the eccentric life roll call
with the coo of the turtledoves flying
over a stone naked basket.
I am the vagabond dog
watching amused the scene
and sometimes quivers to play.
I passed there, waging tail.
Why did you burn me like fossil
in the county of Devon, diabolic mysticals?
I was a being translunary without resentment
and I played like a drum the aster-compass.
Some century ago I was a Trappist
my soul the diadem of the Dharma.
I transported to other lost galaxies
an intimately divine message.
Ancient placenta of tiny dreams
misty destination of foreign maguses
covered with snow bell tower, death cows in the field.
Without flute I will sing your windy ilarodìa
expired as gone milk to badly.
Malatomba, hypochondriac, I will bring
in the green cemetery olive, a ikebàna.
Sinuous mountains of Francesco
le fies de la dama française
I pierce the fertile line
that comes down till the starving wolves
custodians of the spirit of the plow
that howls closed in an acute mausoleum.
How much I have awaited the full moon
to shout who am I: Chiara, Chiara
necklace of the saio that crossed the endless
to sharpen stone doors, and walnut-tree window.
"My jasmine of Catalonian
hides the friend asp and
catapult filled with arrows and stones.
Rascal, gallant, bandit from every court
and courtyard, I live musically, marking
with letters, skins and beat leaves.
Sueno por ninos, bay polish and black
I aspire to the limit of the path.
Flashing Don Miguel de' Fitti Rovi".
This writing was in a parchment.
A mendicant traced the ace of spites
in front of the gate of the Catholic students
giving himself airs on old Saxon stornelloes
and the beg without legs painted
the Lady with the guzia, to the intersection.
The poor ornamenter set a prickly pear
to the sumptuous cavern of the Arabic bank.
When arrived the invaders that shuns the light
the pope abandoned every liturgy, and
escaped in the day of his party.
Will shine rosy the trigon in sky.
Don't need curious eyes the clairvoyants
that scrutinize within to the kaleidoscope
the changing of shade and colors
or the strange turban of sabbath.
The profaner will dress on carbaso
and the time to come, they will be shaken
hours in the caravanserai of Rome.
Who will lift the arms in the street
it's not said that he is a prophet
or his psalmody, a raz de marée.
"Earth, great body friend of worms
when in death I will come back again to you
over me produce a cherry.
I will have great flowers, as grave of Samurai
and yields dessert, winged, and friends worms".
This is what the queen disposed, before the Middle Ages.
She died very old. She had a lot of days to dictate:
"I have met my ghosts with void eyes.
Solitary I walk through the Earth planet".
The queen of the night visits her possessions.
Her procession of elfs and clear blue bewitches
will move clouds made of mosquitoes and grey dragonflies.
The mimosa will bloom at midnight, and the loch
glacial will be a diamond-like enchantment
in accordance with the book of the dreams that comes true.
The handmaid of the queen of the night
will read what will seem her more adapt
to remove the rays of Phoebus toward west
and the wagon of Icaro, weight of chimeras.
What will happen to anyone, unaware, will sleep
under the thick quilted mantle of asteroids
and mascot comets? Who will find the ganesh
will go to east. Who will tighten in fist
the little fluorescent walnut, will have to launch it
within the sleeping lake, wake up again
the siren of the carnations and of the daisies of lawn.
In the cool winter the Muse is lazy
to rise or go sleeping
sips too much Italian coffee
and the nervousness goes to the firmament.
The airy dream of a beautiful love
provided fair and transparent
makes she wait patiently
primulas and violas without thought.
You will stay to the dry land in the galena, Pépin
while elsewhere, the river dear to me, will overflow.
You will end in the burella, with your court of the miracles
and over the county of horrid grotesque masks
an old fogey carnival will laugh, with browse chineses
Norwegian horses and flea-ridden Italian buffoons.
When the Easter penitence will come remorseful
I will wear a tailleur of Coco, and I will be the spy.
I brought myself in migration to New Zealand
and over the Japan I intercepted a planet without air
looking for a lampadoforo, or the little boy with the lanner.
Artist of the latest age, I don't rest on my laurels.
I painted a loom, I composed a telestico.
I knew a vague lemur
that teach me to blow
over the shed shreds of my body.
Even the carcasses have their necessary
and I smiled on the decomposition of my corpse
over the Japan, in migration toward the New Zealand.
From the other world called me Cinderella
dead about midnight.
Pigeons peck at vegetables and orange tree
fallen in abundance from the old benches
and the knife sharpener turn the wheel
among four shorten that do the great.
There is the sad sound of the barrel organ
without a little monkey with the saucer
and dry flowers, and die fish
sauce smell and juice to the fire.
There is no terror, neither enquiring
yet even I am gentle Bruja, Giordano Bruno.
Among the extended sheets to the wind
the dogs piss with slow steps.
You will be lost in the courtyard of a farmer's house
pursued from the gooses, over the slope of the river.
Spy the pounding of the sparrows, under the neighbour storm
and don't pretend anymore to rise up with the fairies in flight
but you will be still able to steal the strawberries of the wood
thinking about your soul, as to a Gothic church.
You will adore to live without any hope, Eloisa
you will be happy, desiring only the impossible.
This unknown verbs, wrote Abelardo one day.
The Gregorian chant was the calligraphy.
Imprisoned clerk in a drakar solemn
I worked at the light of oil lamp
navigating toward unknown landscapes.
One day we heard delicious sounds:
they were three trappists in the rising of the dawn.
Coastwise, he became free with force wild
my spirit part prone to the damage.
In the swear, every diabolic sin
in the profane, the playful jolliness.
I cross them in draisina, towards and backwards.
I leave the wordy games, only to the phonic call
of the little boys of Praga in choir.
threads of meat remain on the ABC.
and the marvellous solitudo.
The turiferario dreams the encaustics of Pompei
with chants a litany nearly gallant
serenade for cymbal without voice.
Spellbound, does fall the smoky thurible
and flies without hauls, inhuman flyer.
I will buy a couple of ali to my horse
it will be ippogrifo from celestial battle
Between the falling and the rising lights.
With the good star it will defeat
Every obstacle. Leviatano that to want to grasp
The forbidden secret of the bard.
Oath of the knight Quaver
from the high one of a windy hill:
"I will keep watch on the innocent beauty.
Terrible Darò torture to who will profane
The starts of the blue universe.
Under the kilt I will have Indian daggers
In the bagpipe, a venom that blinds.
And between the battlements of my castle
I will have to defend myself one thousand winged friends
From the harmless arm, but foul" :
The pilgrims prayed to long
Prisoners in the chaos beyond the Tiber.
The sky that fled above the regal quarry
the flamenco danced, in honor of the Danube phantoms
to wandering for Rome, with the flaneurs to meeting
the navigators of fire, the funambolo with the ninepins
And the black cat that sold ancient books.
The funny captain had an idée fixe
And sole. Someone it went him behind
on foot or to on all fours, but for the more
He appreciated alone starsene to sfarfugliare.
It is orientated always towards the inside
It is isolated, it wanted to win it is not known what.
It was a traveller upset
Why it did not possess the just vocabulary.
And it held a capricious diary of edge
Put on from pens of gull.
Executioners and victims in the prayer
of the shiver and amusement.
Innocent Geishe, samurai, lions
with fire, blood and brothels
under the arcs of triumph.
And new crosses crueler
primizie of the miracles novi
ad limita apostolorum. Impious temple.
As powder puts down in Roman suit
the eternal crafty trouble
superna Glory, millenarian goddess.
|
|
|