I’M VERY UPSET

Last night, I had a dream. I dreamed of a man. He wasn’t really a man, he was rather a young man. Yes, he was a young man. I don’t remember his face. I only remember his eyes, large, clear, I don’t remember the nuance of the iris. Maybe they were green, or maybe blue … who knows what color those bright irises were painted? Certainly, I repeat, they were clear. I remember his hair. They were beautiful. They were wavy, brown, a dark brown, almost black. They painted the gray background of a winter’s day with those tongues of charred wood. I remember touching them. They were soft, softer than I thought. I had imagined them bristly, almost stringy. And instead, what was my surprise in knowing that they are soft and silky, almost water rubbed between my fingers. I remember caressing them, from root to tip, which barely touched his shoulders. They were long and neatly messy. They were so beautiful. I remember them very well. He wasn’t handsome, my young man. But he was attractive, as no Adonis can be. He had a voice… oh, what a voice! He modulated his words gracefully and muttered softly when I was close to him. I touched his hands. He had nice hands. The fingers were long, tapered, pianist’s fingers, as they say. The skin of those hands … You touch it. Oh, if I touched them… they were soft, like hair. They weren’t hot, but they weren’t cold either. They were warm, that sweet, subtle warmth that warms your soul and barely touches your heart. Sweet sound his words close to my ear, as he murmurs …

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.

FROZEN STAR

Dull star on the tip of an incandescent heartbeat.
Tears of sleep on the edge of your dissolved head.
Liquid glass prisoner of the sins of wax.
Immobile and insane.
Paralyzed by negative outcomes.
Interior.
Memories of homes lived in.
Dusty fingers.
Fingers of disappointed child.
Your kingdom smells like summer jasmine paradise.
Your kingdom is the childhood past.
Postcards and postage stamps detached.
You are the master of lost words.
The pocellana of each of your inner places has the wounds of angels.
The skies are the result of a farewell to the horizons. Interior. Returns.
Crumbled taxes.
Magical soups.
The dead zone of the darkened mind.
Alcoholic dementia.
Forget the years.
The schools.
Mental calculations.
You have filtered out every music of your pain.
Violins sing under your bed.
The removed dust settles again.
The fingertips leave fingerprints.
Loose and redone glasses.
Stained glass windows and unlit prayers.
If you wait for the fire, you become ashes.