THE SIREN FISH

Chants,
looks,
dance,
fears,
oblivion,
hideouts,
shelters,
confusions
to want to understand,
but now I say to myself,
I lie down and relax.
I have stopped looking for the definition of an emotional state that has no boundaries.
Delimited my senses by an unreal fear, free my arms, I direct them upwards.
Thistles,
spores, germinations,
holes,
confusions of wanting to do many things and not being able to do them anymore.
Destination not reached,
destination not earned.
I remain as still as I expected
a new wave that engulfs me
and with his retreat you take me with you.
I wait, I wait now with half-closed eyes.
Ships,
sails,
you bring,
figs,
juices of heaven,
open refrigerators.
Apocalypses of beds, of uncertain boys, troublesome writers.
They all give orchids to me who love tulips.
Sheet,
book,
fire,
dust of things,
objects in ashes,
an explosion of sun,
in the morning without tears.
I sprout like a fish that becomes a mermaid.

			

RISING FROM THE ASHES

The hand on the bed, the messy body mixed with the sheets, the tousled hair, a ray of sunshine on her back. How can a human being feel so dull in such a lively context? The body between the sheets, and the mind where? The mind in the streets, gripped by a grip of people all the same and all so extinguished, all so ashes of a fire that does not rekindle. A body that mixes with the sheets and a mind that is lost in the ashes of a pain too strong to be faced, too violent to be placed on the pillow. Rising from the ashes means bringing the body to support the mind, held in that suffocating grip. There was a moment when the body was hidden by the sheets, and the sun did not touch the back. Slowly the wind blew off the sheet and exposed her back. The sun has passed the curtains. And everything that was dark before is now light. Now that the body is strong, the mind is free. Life burns back inside, starting from the feet to the heart. And like a child dreams of flying beyond the confines of the sky, dreams of changing the world. I will change the world, until the sun burns my back.

EVER GREEN

We have been fire that burns,
flames that shine on a summer night when you make love and you don’t swear to stay for eternity,
because there is no need.
It’s all so far now,
and I wonder if we ever existed.
But the ashes still give off smoke.
I don’t know if in the course of my existence I will think of these moments as just blooming sunflowers or ashes flying accompanied by the wind.
I just know that they will remain etched inside me like an incision on the aorta.
They pass quickly the run-in spring swallows, beyond the subtlety of the sunset delicate joy:
from there the desire for the west is born.
I turn around the saving banks of a distant universe:
that who no longer listens to my will but he feels all humankind at a distance.
I ask by the side of the road, to continue in this stop the company of a hand: that me give the opportunity to make myself heard still happy to intertwine fingers,
mark the time between a glance and the reflection of a May afternoon.
Between summer storms and hope not to live it alone in the shade of a luxuriant tree,
the genuine relieves me of all this essence of reserved living with an eye on the world e a small peephole towards poetry and the beauty of creation.
I am sitting outside, the last glow of the sun on my face. it’s cold,
but I don’t want to go back inside for a sweater.
Seeing goosebumps is comforting,
it makes you feel that something can touch me and I am not indifferent to it.
today I tidied up, dusted off,
wrote an important chapter.
I took care of myself calmly, here the time seems to be less and less.
there are those who think of me,
I don’t know what to think.
I smile at a friendship that blossoms despite the ashes left around and I tell myself that it is not true that the conclusions are the end.
I can say with confidence now:
I’m fine and I don’t hold a grudge.
I am so proud of myself that I would hug myself tightly.
perhaps it can be a remedy for the cold.
The ash on the head. Like any penitent, like any writer, I atone for my sins through writing.
I seek redemption hidden in the perfect sentence.
I try to sublimate my pain and debase my heart.
This is not a world suitable for tall people and I have never felt like a giant.
The only regret that of all this writing will remain only ashes.
How many emotions do you go and how much paper consumed. Who knows how much more there will be. In the meantime,
I am consuming my pen by dipping it in the ink of my soul.
Do not make me an example and I am not even a poet. I’m just reporting on my misdeeds.

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