COMING

For a few months now I have been feeling a little better, despite the spring.

I have been in my personal "dark timeline" which in my case is apparently all roses, flowers and perfumes, like in science fiction movies, where you land in the new world or on the new planet and everything seems perfect before you realize that in reality you are in the belly of a disgusting alien monster.

All perfect, but all rotten from the marrow, you realize it when you look to the side, while you are turning around, and you notice that the facade collapses, goes out, like a holographic image that disappearing reveals a dark, gloomy and rotting cave.

I'm back here.

It all sucks the same, but at least you can see it right away.
At least my inner monster always has the same gaze.
Winter is coming even though it is midsummer and sweat is the new rain.

THE VIRGIN FOREST

You have a virgin forest in your head, it seems easy, it seems candid, but no.

Intricate, colorful, warm, but above all humid. That humid monsoon, fragrant, soaked and green.

Cursed deciduous trees that stumble the way, and soft brambles darkly intertwined.

I want to look inside. Go in there. Make room for me, get my hut to enjoy in peace. Jerk off as I please, under a rain that comes like a dense nebula.

Bathe me with the thoughts that you enclose in that casket. Precious and fearful. 
Get me dirty with peat. 

Give me what you are while I dig. Give yourself as a gift to anyone. Shower me with your embarrassed and excited obscenities.

Don't spare me the evil, give me that too. I am the blank canvas, for once and a thousand more if I like it.

Be a serving cavalier for thoughts, works and provocations. No flowers, there is no space in the jungle. Not below. Not here at the bottom. Not in here.

I am the epiphet, which lets its filthy resin run down the trunk, which it leads straight into the heart of your belly.

GENEVIÈVE

She was killed by the electric current,
a home accident,
while he was cooking,
while doing the laundry,
while dusting,
and he sang no more.
She was killed by the blender,
while trying to maintain the diet,
while he was fighting against the tomatoes,
while cleaning the floors.
She was killed while no one noticed her,
while the others slept,
while the sun was shining and
the flowers bloomed.

( Dedicated to all invisible women who work at home without ever getting paid.) 

BLUE STARS

If only I could walk
between the chiaroscuro of your irises,
light up my days
with the lights of your every memory,
if only I had the key
of that French garden
which makes the contours of your face
guiding breath for each completed painting;
if only i could stay there,
stop, hold out your hand,
waiting for your name,
your veins like purple wisteria,
your skin like peony petals,
and listen to the rhythm of your beats outside the heart,
touch the shores of the lake
and make them tremble
in the reflection of the other shore where I wait for you to blossom and we are alone on a branch of blue star flowers. 

THE ANARCHY OF FLOWERS

How can anarchy be controlled? The primordial flow where the reason is lost. Where many fall few have really tried. It is not science, nor speculation, it is from the heart that everyone can be right. It is never too late to say otherwise, it is the fruit of the past, it is just a sunk cost. So don’t wait for disaster, question yourself, find out who you are and then that’s the direction.
Do not look in the dark, it hides nothing, the means and resources are in the open, just find them. And let’s stop with the pity, it’s never too late to “start over”.
We need to remove the heavy burdens and embark on the journey, the road is long so it is inevitable not to lose sight of the goal. Let’s forget about the ego, it is a mirror that alters perception, a crazy mechanism that makes us go wrong.
The true Self is within us, we leave the healing power to ourselves, we are powerful tools of will and persuasion. And if it is true that Thought always dominates, it is really time to teach it and start dreaming, laughing and playing.
At a certain point, changing your lifestyle is a choice, an obligation and a duty. Revolutionize to believe, conquer your orbit and start spinning. Harmony belongs to the Universe and there is no real center, the trick is in balance, we are potentially all in the winner’s chariot. The true Rebel defeats the old Self, only to be reborn and blossom like a flower.

MY GARDEN WITH HOLES

My garden is full of puddles, holes made by dogs, pieces of branches flown in the storm, bare trees and no flowers because the mice have eaten the bulbs. And I'm very sad that I can't have a nice garden but the weather is awful here. It is very cold and there is already snow on the mountains and yesterday it was only 4 degrees. The house is very humid and even if we heat it later it becomes cold again, it does not keep the heat, it is an old house and it is a torment. Here in my area life is very sad now, especially for me because I don't have the green pass and I can no longer go to the gym, to the theater, to the cinema. I always have to stay at home. Our Italian government has taken away all freedom from us and people like me, who cannot get the vaccine, are limited in everything in life. I am getting depressed and I can't stand this deprivation of freedom. Now in Italy there is this dictatorship that is destroying the country's economy and the people.

WE’RE LITTLE FLOWERS

We are little flowers that are not seen,
we don’t have sparkling makeup,
gorgeous dresses.
We are simple flowers,
little souls in the midst of life.
Tiny breaths of a moment of infinity.
We are small flowers that grow asking for nothing.
It is enough for us to have the sky above and the earth below us.
Have you ever stopped to observe the wildflowers? Have you ever reflected on the beauty of colors, their shades which not even the most daring painter would be able to reproduce? In their apparent simplicity, wildflowers hide a great pride, a strength and a determination that leads them to stand up among others without anyone having asked for it, without anyone having sown, watered, wanted them. I admire them for their tender beauty, their colors and their spontaneity. Simple and yet each of them to see well is perfect and wonderful in his being. Sometimes I feel like wildflowers, one among many, simple, but with that simplicity that hides a strength that only those who want to look beyond appearances can find. Fair and modest like wildflowers. Shy yet sure of her own worth like wildflowers.
Have you ever appreciated the beauty of a wild flower? I love them. They don’t have a well-kept garden where they can show off their beauty. They have no loving hands that take care of them. They don’t have a long life to be admired. They grow in inaccessible places and bend to the elements of time. But they are tenacious, bold. And on their slender stem they will blossom again in spite of those who do not find them beautiful and those who are unable to appreciate their scent. Isn’t that a nice way to describe women? Women who, like a wildflower, always show everyone the strength to be reborn after one or a thousand difficulties.

	

OPEN DOOR

I smell the stench of your darkness, your perverse looks, your bloody long tongues and your sharp claws that tear the light. You are worms that crawl to eat the soil you have beneath you. Humanity has nothing good and only a facade to get something in return. The true human soul is made up only of darkness that envelops the entire planet. I see empty people with no will to live. People who lose days of life without wondering why they die inside. Inside they have monsters that devour them and as soon as someone approaches they tear them apart to rob their soul. Life is a continuous devouring each other without even anyone noticing. We are beasts that devour everything and everyone in order to survive. A battle all in our heads that is amplified in the world.
A stain contrasts with your whiteness. It is black, black bewilderment, black disgust. Some would barely notice it, others would not consider it at all. I, on the other hand, can’t see anything else. It is there in the center of my gaze, I try to eliminate it but I cannot because it is sticky, it has stuck to you. I have dirtied you, defaced you, I scarred you. You, so beautiful, so innocent … How can I still look at you the same way? How am I not going to think about that scene turning in my mind like a restless beast? How will I still feel your hands, your body? It happened a while ago, but for me it’s like it was today. The disgust makes me tremble, the disappointment makes me close my eyes. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, it was just to try, a game, nonsense … Nothing to do, these excuses don’t work. I try to keep an open mind usually, tolerant, understanding. This time, however, after she heard you speak, she curled up on herself, like a piece of paper that burns and slowly chars. I just want to curl up and forget everything, and then open my eyes and find it was just a dream. Because this memory is so strong, because the disgust is so intense, because … I am cold inside and you are in sleep and you are still dreaming about that day.
He looks at her with the eyes of love. And she doesn’t see, she doesn’t understand that she doesn’t make sense, she doesn’t have a purpose, a dream, an aspiration, nothing. Nothing is what you hear. No past, heartbeats, breaths, monotony, do what you have to, make them happy. The look that from time to time rests on what is “normal” but which for her becomes more and more distant, unattainable, almost inconceivable. The present is no longer anything, the warmth, the beauty, the sweet scents have arrived. But nothing always remains her, so eager to resemble her childish fantasies, so hopeful and yet so dry and dumb, cold and empty. The desert doesn’t want flowers, does it? It makes them thirsty during the day, cold at night. The desert welcomes passing guests, but then lashes them with its storms and hurries to erase their footsteps. He doesn’t want anyone, the desert. Or maybe yes, but he doesn’t even know how to manage himself. Hot, then cold, storms, comatose calm. He is furious with himself, he is disillusioned. He thinks that he will not make it, when he has to spread his wings and fly, he will realize that they are made of paper, so thin as to be transparent. He will realize that the imagination is just smoke. And it will fall into the void.

STORY OF A NYMPH

Clizia was a young nymph, lost in love with the Sun, so she followed him all day while he drove his chariot of fire throughout the sky. The sun, at first was flattered and a little touched by that devotion … he thought he was in love with her in turn and decided to seduce her, which was not difficult for him! But soon the Sun got tired of Clizia’s love and gave her, as they say … the welcome by turning his attention elsewhere. The poor nymph wept continuously for nine whole days.

HIDDEN SOUL

Unfortunately, the thing that unites all of us dreamers is the fact that we always wait for something to happen without ever doing anything to make it happen. We are always there, thinking, “I just have to wait. Sooner or later I will be happy. Sooner or later there will come that thing that will change my life, that will upset it. ” Yes, I said well, I used the word “upset” because, let’s face it, we all expect something to arrive that upsets the monotony of our life. Everyone, including me. And because of that, I’m missing out on the best years of my life. They insulted me, they tried to kill me inside, they used me, they pretended to love me, they beat me and trample me. Wasted effort, I’m still standing.
I’m the right brain.
I am creativity.
A free spirit.
I am passion.
Wish.
Sensuality.
I am the roaring sound of those who laugh.
I am the taste.
The feeling of sand under your bare foot.
I am movement.
Bright colours.
I am the urge to paint on the naked canvas.
I am limitless imagination.
Art.
Poetry.
I guess.
I hear.
I am everything I wanted to be.
The truest part of me is in the impulses I control,
in the emotions I hold back, in the thoughts I hide,
in the things I don’t say.
They are not for everyone, they are for those who can look inside me.
I am the cry of the blood in the glass of the sea,
I am a fever of the air, of the flower,
I am a leaf, a great funnel for the black nectar. I am welcome to new havens.
I am a flame,
seeking its drop of water,
it sinks,
but remains liquid inside the earth.
they are a mixture of various parallel directions,
different trains, tears mixed with private joys,
I’m the green grass,
fox and bird,
I dare to challenge every hunt,
I am inside the battles of the heart,
no way out,
no trembling,
no hesitation.

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