JOLLY NIGHT

I, like a stranded soul,
in your skirt full of folds and flowers, I enter the holes and sew on you.

What did the weakness matter?
A caress of mine came out of the memento mori casket.

All the quivering skin of a mermaid thrown back to the sea,
with that rope that I was holding tight to you, and you who didn't even want to free yourself.

It was intended that I wanted you to stall, in the warmth of that emotion that makes you human,
and then you throw yourself back,
together with the memories of a summer that ended badly.

WAITING FOR SOMETHING

There are those days when you no longer understand anything, what up to a second before gave you happiness, makes you nervous, that thing that gave you suffering, becomes pathetic. In a few moments, everything loses sense and you feel like in a bubble, enclosed with your apathy, while the world around you goes on. Maybe some individual expresses perplexity, almost anger towards you, wondering and wondering, the why of all this … But you can’t answer yourself, let alone them and then you stay inside, waiting for the arrival of something or someone who instead of continuing to soap you, it will be able to burst your barrier and make you feel alive, again. During these two years of imprisonment I have clung to words and promises that very often people make based on the circumstances, the moments of darkness. When this life returns to “normal” these words will have vanished, forgotten, because supported by a general illusion of being able to be better than what we really are. We are human. We need comfort and a foothold in our worst days. As soon as we get better we will behave exactly as we have always behaved. There is a pre-pandemic and a post-pandemic. The present we are experiencing is just a parenthesis that contains everything we would like to be but that our pride and our selfishness will extinguish as soon as possible.

I SAID GOODBYE

I said goodbye in the end,
I counted the petals, the drops of frost,
I even counted the clouds.
I said goodbye but didn’t leave.
It was all still there,
leaves, stones, boots, sparrows.
I couldn’t nest on a branch,
to be human means to build.
But I don’t want to build,
concrete and tears, and distorted iron.
I said goodbye but remained like a thread of heaven,
like a stringy mist,
like a sovereign bride.
Mud and petals, roofs, twigs.
The sparrows and I are the same.

ORANGE JUICE

I carry the loads on me. I place them on my back, writhing, to adapt them to the shape and material of my shoulders, and I walk around like this, crooked and weighted. I carry loads on me when I decide I’m too old to cry and slam doors. When I make important decisions without thinking and instinct leads me to superficiality and immorality: I leave under the pillow what I have learned over the years, on a mattress deformed by the lines of my loads. At night everything is waiting for me under the pillow right where I saw it last, and I dream of bloody hands. I carry the load of the blood that I no longer have and of my addictions, which today are the only useful support to remind me how I grew up. Addiction, the weapon with which I feel free to wander aimlessly in my prison, countless times. I carry the burdens on me with the experience of one who, in practice, has chosen to suffer.

Then, suddenly, the evening turned into night. Sometimes you don’t have time to notice, things happen in seconds. Everything changes. Are you alive. You are dead. And the world goes on. We are thin as paper. And nothing can be done about it. You can sit on top of a mountain meditating for decades and it will never change one iota. You can change yourself and get over it, but maybe that’s wrong too. Maybe we think too much. We hear more, think less. But you have a brain. You are not a human. You can’t crawl. Yet they crush you anyway. The power of words. If you write them and nobody knows you, you have no power. You have no power. You are like a snail. They don’t even talk to you because they know you’re not a ghost. You are real and the truth bothers you.

STORY OF TWO MIRRORS

Once upon a time there was an old sage sitting on the edge of an oasis at the entrance to a city in the Middle East.
A young man came up and asked him:
“I've never come this way. What are the inhabitants of this city like? "
The man replied in turn with a question:
"What were the inhabitants of the city you came from?"
“Selfish and bad. This is why I was happy to leave there ”.
“So are the inhabitants of this city!”, Replied the old sage.
Soon after, another young man approached the man and asked him the same question:
“I just arrived in this country. What are the inhabitants of this city like? "
The man replied again with the same question:
"What were the inhabitants of the city you come from?".
“They were good, generous, hospitable, honest”.
“Even the inhabitants of this city are like that!”, Replied the old sage.
A merchant who had brought his camels to water had overheard the conversations and when the second young man left he addressed the old man in a reproachful tone:
“How can you give two completely different answers to the same question asked by two people?
“My son”, replied the wise man, “each one carries in his heart what is within himself.
Anyone who has not found anything good in the past will not find anything good here either.
On the contrary, he who had loyal friends in the other city will also find loyal and faithful friends here.
Because, you see, every human being is led to see in others what is in his heart.

In life you always find what you expect to find .. because everyone projects outside what resides within himself.

I DIED ONCE

I wandered through a fantasy forest.
Blue branches, yellow barks, purple grasses, star gourds.
My one second dream.
Those who keep their hats even at night.
The thieves of gods.
Tears without taste.
Drinking.
I don’t protect myself with the sacred.
My mantle is made of mountains, bright rocks, forests that I don’t know.
Human journeys first were made by dogs.
Flora is like a colored texture around the inky black of my path.
I was a happy child and I was making bouquets of flowers.
Now I collect stones to consolidate my torn chest.
I died once where I haven’t walked yet.
I was taken without my permission.
Collected by an ogre they didn’t warn me about.
It wasn’t his garden, and I hadn’t crossed over.
Maybe my being a doll brought him closer.
Perhaps beauty sometimes brings death.

STORY OF A DECISION

I don’t want to try to live any life again. I got bastardized and the home is worse for me than the cauldron of cannibals. every day too many people ate my best meat and every day I fed their thoughts with succulent ardor and multicolored hopes. This lane no longer belongs to me, I am out of the white lines, I went beyond the yellow lines, I deleted the blue lines and I took possession of a space that has nothing to do with men. I jumped out of the lines of men and women ready for the handkerchief race. I saw my prize and refused it, even though it shone like pure gold. I am never the one who dwells in this non-existent rent. I sell myself to my thoughts. I sell myself to my breath. I sell myself to the stranger who lives in my houses. he has an immense need for inhuman pleasures. he is the worst of the inhuman demons. unfolds me on white sheets and folds my corners without hesitation, an origami of crowded evenings. I go to find the silence of the marble angels. I go where life no longer lives. I don’t bring flowers to anyone, I walk among my buried souls, I mix wet lands, replant dried flowers … I look at the photos of my deceased sisters, my soul mates … the others who were not as lucky as me to live despite my apparent death. They call me a vampire, they tell me a scribe, they think I’m alien. I can’t stand people paved with knowledge. reducing billions of sadness into sonic explosions leaping the pit of pain by stabbing black stars that fall like ash confetti. the apocalypse of sadness makes the angel more terrible and the trumpet sounds like thunder. the din of the mind increases, the detachment from human people increases, I am extinguished. I feel in the last non-stellar sky, on the top floor of inhuman pain, I feel myself going up and down for no reason, my love runs on black ice stairs, on roads that penetrate impossible, fearful darkness. fingers of flesh and wind slip into my torment. fingers of cardiac losses accumulate and open my chest. I open the doors of my feeling and immediately afterwards I regret it. I got a devil in every hair, a devil in my brain, a tiny tiny black elf that rubs itself on white surfaces to write his curses. two horns come out of the dream, two very long sharp golden tinsel. they turn to my power, they enter me without seeing any other direction. they come out of open walls, from walls of forgotten art, they come out of nights pierced by incomprehensible dreams. pearls come out of the darkness of nostalgia, they twist into pointed horns and I stare at endless nights. swamps smoke, the sun goes down, the pain disappears. the abysses fall! incredible crash of pieces of glass, of crystal wings, of metal hearts. my angels dance with dagger blades that become stems of roses without corollas. my angels protect my brain from the depths of steel, from the seas of gold, from cruel power. my angels crash into the walls of my pain, strangled by the love of living. they flee and return to their purple skies. voices intertwine, voices are released, from within and everything comes out, in a moment, in a single second, the world is torn apart and the killer enters the scene. no one knows his past, no one knows his pain, no one knows the subtle pleasure, the need, the desire … the instinct to kill. hidden inside is what triggered the bomb, what triggered the blow, what caused the nefarious fury, the sublime revenge … scenes and other scenes revisited in the imagination, scenes and scenes acted without script … what do you want to know? what do you want to know about a killer or a killer? Is the thinking distorted or is it in the world that everything goes wrong? when the hand is thrown choosing to give death it is the power of the man that holds the heart of the murderer in a grip of sublime pleasure and that makes him feel like any god, renegade or not. what thirst for knowledge burns in your veins? what do you want to know about the pleasure of killing? what brings you on the path of the unspeakable sin of the human mind? silence awakens me and silence doesn’t make me sleep. a crowd throngs inside my heart and I’m ready to strike again. is it me you were waiting for? here is the explanation for all of you, a confession opened from a cell without a lock, a superhuman torture because those who know the journey but never the destination! I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t remember I was another person … I was using another name maybe I was there and maybe I wasn’t there, a memory gap, for no apparent reason, something that you feel inside, something that doesn’t add up .., and yet it was I who had done everything, I had decided it a long time ago … or was it even before? I don’t remember, a memory lapse. but why understand? why ask again? there is no explanation for the pleasure of dying inside others. it’s another person, it’s not me. I was not there. I’m not… no voice, no voice anymore … from my silence. a word broke my voice, a word that doesn’t break my silence. never again no voice will come out of my throat. no voice, no voice. he killed the voice, he didn’t kill the silence … and I will kill him in silence … I’ll take away the one thing he doesn’t have … life. no voice, no voice I will give to my silence … nobody wants to know, nobody has to know the torment of being a killer. no more voice will tell you which is my favorite weapon, no word of mine will tell my wound, no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. changes like an executioner inside his victim!

I’VE LOST MY COLOURS

I got wet with colors but I couldn’t color anymore. I have lost those signs and forms of myself that saved me. I closed all my creation in rigid boxes. I got stiff too. No form seems to appeal to my mind anymore, be it human or inhuman. Only in dreams can I feel, have emotions. This way of being, this way of not feeling is so strange. Some time ago I was expecting the dark knight, the black man, the sublime executioner. Now I’m not expecting anyone anymore. Nobody can color my days. There is no pleasure in living this way but it is inner survival. You paint me but I can’t give myself a new shape.