NOT YOUR PUPPET

Feeling that sense of getting lost in the middle of the music, the only one
Without thinking that an audience judges
Get out of the sheet that sweats to go back into the dispersed intercourse
Over time that changes in beating a burning iron
With blood that spits and kills whoever helps, then scrutinizes
I move each strand of my puppet with subtle movements
But mine is a puppet who knows who is driving him, it is he who cuts his strings
It is the statue that is erected by enthusiasm and left to that guano he wears
A standing run, a cross on the ground
A vice, a hug, a patch, a tear, a violent silence
A voice, a mouth, a threshold, a light
A moon, a desire, a shape, a need, a woman, a pride, a retort, a sunset
A beach, a fate that I write, a fate that I live
A road that starts from here. 

WILD HEAT

Void similar to the sea,
swimming, digging into the water, spinning in whirlpools of effervescent bubbles.
Minds of thinkers, closed in towers.
Good directions,
red heart beast,
ritalized with resistant scissors.
The flood made even Moses tremble but for the animals it was only rain.
A part of me has its forms,
the other part only you see.
Dangerous island, you arrive, castaway, and dig a pit.
Stay inside my thousand drowned souls.



( ITALIAN RHYMING VERSION)

Cuore simile al mare,
nuotare, scavare dentro l’acqua, ruotare in vortici di bollicine effervescenti.
Menti di pensatori, chiuse in torrioni.
Buone direzioni,
bestia del cuore rossa,
ritaliata con forbici resistenti.
Il diluvio fece tremare persino Mosè ma per gli animali era solo pioggia.
Una parte di me ha le sue forme,
l’altra parte la vedi solo tu.
Isola pericolosa, tu arrivi, naufrago, e ti scavi una fossa.
Rimani dentro le mie mille anime affogate.

WAR IS OVER?

John tormented by emotional shortage. Unleash his need for love in music. But when love arrives, she is the age of a mother. Is he a child looking for love? He remains enraptured by his mother's womb, absorbed, until his friendship with Paul is questioned. Paul realizing how much influence that woman has on him.
Music could not replace a mother. Yoko yes, he did. She drew her lost son to her and found him. John found himself but lost his friends. Are there other cases of wives or mothers or girlfriends "vacuum cleaners of genius people"?
Did Yoko bring out the best in John? Did it grow it or did it regress? Did he kidnap him from the Beatles to have him all for himself or did he want to help him demonstrate his genius in a complete way?
John struggled to spread his message of peace. Which musician these days is doing the same? 

MY TEARS DRY

THUNDER BREEZE

I remember when I clung to pain as if it were the only way out or maybe the only thing I was able to feel to feel something my life has always been as if I was suspended on a thread with shortness of breath and the anxiety of falling and collapsing sinking into that abyss of me the terror of not being able to go back up of not being able to feel anything but anger e hatred of myself that kept me in a cage and the outside world was nothing but a reflection, a distant mirage of all that I could not achieve I’ve always wondered why I run and never reach what I really dream of? because I run fast but the others are able to overtake me in all circumstances? I’ve always been left behind because, too sensitive I feel it all too much and it overwhelms me breaks my heart in two and I stand there in silence in a pool of my own tears I also understand that my biggest limitation is a dark part inside me that makes me see the world black and devoid of possibilities even if yes, I know that’s how it is, largely. but not life, life always has something to offer you even in the darkest of times you can find light in the smallest and most banal things that pass before your eyes every day but you don’t have to you never have to turn away you have to stop and observe, appreciate, be grateful and love even the smallest blade of grass that you step on without thinking about it we are all fragile but the strength is in the brave heart who decides to exist consciously another day get up in the morning and know you are worth because it has no malice hate envy or resentment that is able to prove. and just breathe again so day after day to live.

RAISE YOUR VOICE

WE’RE LOVE

Here, now we are finally at the expansion of the heart, if we have worked well within ourselves.We are encouraged to live our truth and to move full force into the future that we desire and feel as a thrust of the soul. Now is the time to recognize the difference between who we really are and the roles we have accepted to play so far. When we no longer resist all of this we are able to move full force forward towards a higher state of being and also to manifest more and more instantaneously our deepest desires of the soul. There are great things in store, a year of great expansion and celebration but all this only if we are able to let go of everything that is no longer serving our Higher Self and if we are able to stand firm on our integrity and move towards the our truth, the truth of who we really are. All this is possible only thanks to a careful work on ourselves that allows us to remember more and more who we are beyond all that they wanted us to believe (and that we have accepted), beyond any idea that others people have put it inside us. Then we begin to strip ourselves of all these layers: age, where we live, friendships, relatives, work, … everything we do and are only in relation to others. Let’s gather inside our inner world, free ourselves from all those layers that have made us liars, unaware, cynical, hateful, cold, … and begin to visualize our warm and luminous flame within us. We are that Light, why have we forgotten all this about us? It is our essence diviba but we allowed layers and layers of people, things and events to cover it and we no longer saw it. But now we begin to melt ourselves inside the heart and remove those layers. We are that flame. We are Love.

TIBETAN HEALING SOUNDS

PANDORA’S SECRET

Using teeth and throats,
lips for breath beats, the flesh to whisper,
storm of veins, paw, sweat.
In the shell of your eyes winters a hard star,
an eternal gem.
But your voice is a calm sea, ancient shells,
pieces of reason,
mind in fragments of the sea.
The palm of the hand in the sky he marvels, the sun darkens,
to be able to look at you better.
You are also a grass, an orange,
a cloud, a rock on which to crash. The world falters at the kidneys,
the pleasure of the inner sediment contracts.
The heat of the heart expands, twisting towards the atrocious futures.
We sat exhausted in the rubble of your body,
we sucked the liquor from your brain,
and not only that, and we had to keep walking jumping over obstacles of love.
You are suspended on the circle of life
and you hold your skull well polished like an ancient object,
you cover it with your hair, you put it back.
Put on another wig and you are another different woman.
You have only indulged in your perfume of infinity.

INTO THE DARK SIDE

Its dark side always stands out. For Amleta it is a constant struggle. It sinks and resurfaces. You continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. Submerged by torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. A black blood flows in his veins, he tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from every vein, from every cell of mine. But it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it takes over and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail: it rides on the lost hours of its inhuman time and gets lost in the shadows that are drawn in its secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, that of her grandmother, and says her name is Hamlet. That child was her, at the age of eight, when she was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. Soon Hamlet appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed her steps. She had never felt so happy as her first time in the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? There you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to her in the wind among the cypresses and only she could hear them. The candles fascinated her, if she wanted to take them home, her mother scolded her, you can’t steal from the dead! He told her. She was upset, for her those were the flames of their vanished hearts and she wanted to keep them safe in her home. Then, when she was finally big, she bought as many as she wanted and her room glowed with flames. Those red flames were so happy for her! People did not understand the beauty of light, they believed them candles of the dead and that’s it. She misses the cemeteries. It has been a long time since he went and nowhere has he found that silence again. Perhaps one day not too far away, when this struggle of yours will also end, she too will be able to rest there and be only a stone angel.
I have lived half my life years now. I have traveled the world. Saw many good and bad things. Experienced with good and bad people. I was abused at 4 years old. But I was saved by art. I loved it very much. People and animals. So much so that I was able to save a lot of people except myself. I have always done everything following my heart but my heart has taken me to a country where I am dying out. I am dependent on vital drugs for me and I cannot marry from this damn nation. I hate being here. I hate my beating heart. I see too many people just looking for money. That’s why I’m alone here. Many have used and exploited me. But I said enough. I have given too much of myself. The world will perish and there is no Gandalf to screen Evil. No brave group to take out the orcs. We human beings are finished now. Machines own people. When I talk about real life and not virtual, they laugh in my face. All. It is normal for them to be on the web 24 hours a day. They consider me strange to me because I prefer to go out and live outside and not inside a screen. But unfortunately there are few left without cell in hand. We are just white flies. The trouble is this. See how life goes. You see that working does not bring happiness. Not even love gives happiness. Neither are friendships. And neither does the money. So what’s the use of all this play? Adaptation to society. From an early age they tell us that we are here and we must do as they tell us to do. And we all to obey. Whoever escapes is lost. Lost or free? Boh. Freedom always has a price. But in the meantime we are in a cage like lions and have to be content with this stupid survival? I am tired.
I’m remembering myself. I’m remembering who I am. Jasmine scent. Sometimes the neigh of a horse woke me up in the morning. The open cracks let the sun’s rays pass through and that dust looked like magic dust in the air. The voices of the neighbors, the morning television, the news. The heat already after the early hours of dawn. The scorching heat. The life that melted inside the water bottles. Ice cubes on your fingers. On the deck chair reading a book, chasing away ruinous flies. Then the dives in the sea, every day, every summer month, every year in the villa by the sea. I hated that season. I hated the heat and mosquitoes. In my literary solitude I felt detached from life outside. I didn’t know what human comedy was still like. I didn’t know sex and I didn’t even know love. Me on the deckchair, with my Flaubert and Miss Felicita and her parrot. My elementary teacher loved me. He gave me that book because I was good. I was always studying and always finishing my homework. I drew a lot. Notebooks full of drawings. Trees, flowers, animals, …. masks. That book stole my soul. That book stole my life: “A simple heart” was entitled. I didn’t even know who this Flaubert was. I also really liked the illustrations of that girl who lived alone with that bird. That girl who then died with a smile in her mouth. The smell of jasmine mixed with the scent of fried fish. The smell of jasmine that filled the summer nights. The sweat of being able to touch my pain made word. The pain that made me alone. I spoke English, nobody understood it. It was not modern English. It was the language of another life of mine. I’m remembering myself. About that little girl sitting in the deck chair. How I read that book without knowing who Flaubert was. I was only 11 years old and I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know what life was. The pages were full of illustrations. Such beautiful designs!

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