In a world that uses techniques, where the strongest wins, where photos are posted to appear happy so as to make others envious, where you have to hold a glass of alcohol in your hands to look interesting, where a naked butt wins instead of the honey … I SAY NO. I keep all my frailty, shiny eyes, pain and fatigue. We are living in the century where sex is free and love costs money, where losing your phone is worse than losing your values. Where smoking and drinking is fashionable and if you don’t, you are old Where men cheat on women with girls and women if they don’t cheat, it is because they fear being caught. Where the bathroom has become a photo studio. Where women fear pregnancy more than HIV. Where the pizza delivery service arrives before the ambulance. Where clothes decide a person’s value and having money is more important than having friends or even a family. Where children are able to give up their parents for their virtual “love”. Where men just want relationships without obligations Where love is a game and you only survive if you play with reason, and you are destroyed if you act with the heart.


Perhaps, in all these years,
people weren't that cruel
and I didn't need to swallow all that ash
of dull smiles between the lips.

Maybe I didn't notice and left on the street
stumps of missing hugs,
like mournful candlesticks
turned on to my loneliness.

For this I am satisfied
to warm myself with crumbled phoenixes;
and I've spent bland days,
with his mouth too full of me to talk about love.

It would have been nice to lean on each other,
like hands on glass,
but I didn't have the courage to undress,
because being transparent is fragile,
and it's easy to break.


I've never felt sorry for people who decide to be alone. I do not find it an example of cowardice, not as much as I do not see it in those who would instead get together with anyone in order not to deal with loneliness. I have always been of the idea that being alone is beautiful, it is liberating. As I return home, in my beautiful solitude and silence after yet another chaotic day, I take off my shoes I untie my hair I sit on the sofa and stare at a point in the dark entrance in front of me. It is perhaps the truest moment that I live in contact with who I am. Me and my thoughts, and my reflections on what I did, on the contracts concluded, on the clients I met, on the mistakes I made. I should have been more rigid with the people I met this morning, I should have been more resolute in addressing that issue in the afternoon. I stay on the sofa with my legs on the table in the center, and the only sensation I have is of the skin in contact with the glass. Beautiful loneliness, as you think about how many are around right now having conversations with someone they don't even listen to the words of. After all, I'm almost happy. My tired legs and I, thank you for having decided to return, without further stops for aperitifs, inaugurations or dinners. Without effort, naturally back to live in the moment, of this moment.


So ready to disappear
I was
so featherweight
and apologize to the skin
with every dust of air
for undue occupation,
so impressed by the transparency
I was
to make glass
to dazzling mornings
and smell of wave
between propped bodies.
So strictly useless
the soul
to keep it green next to it
in the long course of the so-called
without any unhinging
of speech.
"Then? Then?"
I slipped out
in hard peel
world skin,
I make a silence
on evil,
a cloak
of insolent beauty
I cannot command
this flow
it is a great work
of clear yield
with a majestic current,
I am a word to the light
I was born.


my bed has a hole in it
my sock has holes in it
my heart is pierced
my sweater has holes in it
my glass has a hole in it
my shoe has holes in it
my mind is whole,
my empty cup,
my plate of green vegetables.
Tonight a nightmare of drinks and chic clothes. Black, red, gold and blue, sparkling, fabulous.
I didn't open my eyes because there was something else in my past.
I didn't want to wear clothes for anyone.
I want to stay in leggings and a T-shirt.
I want to stay out of the world of elegant zombies.


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.
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.

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