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It’s not you to destroy nature
capable to adapt to any aberration.
After the desecration is it to a destroy you.
When the singer passes
like an old priest on the climb
waiting for his last days
close quickly the doors
since death is on his side.
Don’t believe it’s the wind
to move the bells.
Close the door to the singer.
Two-faced january watches the last year
hoping the new will be better
and banquets with wine jug
It cut firewood with the axe
here, the flame flares up.
February gets ready the tools
for the trades of march
that prunes and fixes the vines.
April announces the resurrection
and May triggers the wars
because men need them
to trample swift the land.
June harvests highest ears
so that feed in plenty.
Helps it to finish activities
july without a hand, with broken scythe
but a large packed bag
and august collects the fruits
striking the circles of the barrels
that september will fill up of grape juice.
Bearded october seeds tired
november lowered and splendid
acts as gatherer of turnips
till december that slaughters the pig.
Then begins again the turn of the wheel
under an unknown firmament
still to explore endless.
Come outside from cone of shadow
leave the sheets ripped
hermit averse musician.
Don’t you see where we are?
You search your father in heaven
and you are hang up like a vampire
between here and the nothing. Also you
now know that there is only
this hour of cicadas at the field
like the notes. Take again to play
even if you are dead mysteriously.
Don’t you see we are together?
Watch, we fly. Beirut is in war
how much smoke. Is there your father?
The guitar is over the hill
as if Marc were here
to paint nervously.
We find ourselves Sid, adios
you will play forever, it’s clear
and I will scatter my complaints.
The cows graze at the broken wall.
It is the incomprehensible place
where you are now.
Your Elizabethan phantom
performs with cicadas in field
and spies my terrace
from cone of shadow. I laugh
Sid cries hopeless.
I was poisoned when I was young.
Driven crazy I rambled in earth, as I were
between the stars that never fall
carefully drawn by someone
who studied their diffused lights
like origin of the most beautiful things.
While plenty they prayed the gods
I followed the blind singer
who had ripped his eyes
so that he wouldn’t judge his king.
The storm still carries around
invisible atoms of my body
falling over your world
burnt by murders hands
near Hercules columns.
And you notice a war in progress
asking how much it will last. You want joy
between fanatical, idols, prayers
so that outbreak of temple could happens.
People following unfortunate prophecies.
Don’t be useless scared
and if you can preserve my atoms.
You will be cherished by the tides
Arturo will catch you smiling
imagining the elderly scholars
inside every rebuilded temple.
Nature creates and disintegrates the things
more than every wicked and powerful.
But after the thunder, here is the rainbow
and nothing dies outright
Could this be reason of rejoicing
without harmful exaltation, or faith.
Someone opens the white spaces
leaving the numbers, the scannings
and no more comes back again, between the ruins
that history accumulates without care
one upon another. And temples, and churches
theatre of tearing to pieces, synagogue, broken column.
From where come outside the human misfortunes?
From Pandora’s box, acquired
at western second-hand market.
Stupid accustomed to the well-being
find themselves even more coward
in front of the gold palaces
royal palaces stuffed of rockets.
Around they die of hunger
thirst, aids, leprosy, malaria.
Who will think of them? Who goes to die
for love of the neighbour, sick
of forgiveness, of pain used as pretext
or who he goes to die for hate
infected by envious insanity?
Nobody who store up in the shadow
simulacrums of contest.
Why did we arrive here
after splendid expanses
of nature and history of other times
deposited randomly everywhere?
Tourists who wander between numbers
scannings that open white spaces
and never come back again.
An immense bath of blood.
There is always a bench on which seating
a friendly shadow of tree
a church to visit
a big coat for the cold
you dream nude on summer.
An imaginary love
one ringing impatient
and then will make nothing.
A coffee to drink without eat
as it were a sacred wafer
a phone call to do
you will never do.
A bike parked badly
a parent, or nagging relative
to break off balls you have not
you will put on, on your way
when also you will learn
what luck is to be outside
to play with the peace of the hour
while the others only go shopping.
To mistake, to smell, to escape
and to put right with bitter laughter.
To visit sites, without paying, live
when many want to crack.
A day more then
is all the gold of the world
in your natural season
in which aspire to a bacchanalia
pretending, because you do not know
if you go ahead or back
back or ahead
and you will discover perhaps it after.
Natural season, terminal
understood as central, deadly
for love, desire and the shadow.
I ignore who named me
nebula Owl.
Every thousand earthly years
that are many less for me
I try to show something
that resembles me, that could represent
at least a desire, an impulse
for who has the way to watch me
more less near me.
The charm, with passing of the time
lasts less and less
and then I return to do
what indicates my name.
I get tired to show walls
furnish and bright jewels
and when I go away, I obscure
who found himself at my side, pushing him
into a prolonged regret.
But I must follow the laws
that govern from always the skies
stretch myself how I can over black
and enjoy it from abyssal distances
up here to scrutinize my neighbours
the mishaps they have in order to breathe.
It’s enough for me a perfect vision
open eyes on the silent gait.
When the old bridge collapsed
fall into the water quintals of gold
that before look in the mirror conceited.
The fattest delinquents cried
with their withered wives
because were there to buy.
Only the statue of the ancient goldsmith
snickered all satisfied.
A butcher’s boy passed in bicycle singing.
“He slept, died but was seeking love.
Why do not drown also you?”
The sun peeped from the towers
and the hurricane of 2017 stopped.
The English musicians first
came back to the muddy squares
and occupied the town forever.
Still on the green lizard waters
floated slippers and sapphires.
Friends who adore the sunset
over countries dug on cliffs
mangers risen around the water-mill.
The miller lives like your caretaker.
Don’t let the marine forests burn
where, when the sun ends
you collect mushrooms and raspberries.
Don’t send around the world
your sons and grandsons.
Stay hang up there, with the great mother.
He went out from the central bank
with tie and hair to the wind
the handbag more and more empty.
Two policemen looked at him severe
and two priests were shocked.
An aroma of steak captured
crews of starved around the columns.
They didn’t want to visit museums
but go for taverns
hardly remedying the remainders
and to shit for road, swearing.
He came back to the central bank
without eating anything
lean and pale, without handbag.
He had left it in custody to building contractors
as pledge for a house in center.
They all ended behind the slabs
and when he went out
became living statue in Piazza Navona
of what he had really been
a smiling manager gone crazy
with tie and filthy hair
carved in the air with gel.
Who passed laughed sarcastic
threw coins, took photos.
The dandy was safe, that hell evening
when Tiber overflowed.
Today he remained alone
with the overwhelmed statues.
There is neither passer-by, nor easy begs.
If you enter in the territory of elk
there orders its offspring and the wind
that helps him to dig holes.
If you stop at the station of the prison
you will not leave again but hardy
after making religious charities
pretended, to spy. Try
to escape from the beauty hall
and keep dirty nails, straggling hair.
It is better to seem a mummy
exhibited at the museum of remakes.
Mirna, fairy with white hair
born children like her
and they are splendid under the rain
that falls abundant at Helsinki.
The same solitude accompanies
still an escape from the prison
but now you know the rules
the right directions, and scribbles
at every braking of the convoy
ignoring starched bottoms
seekers of dead clandestines
and big gentlemen with gross look.
Mirna invites you to eat
the cake with ribes and cinnamon
with a very eastern tea.
Yes, I am, all right here
until we are alive. I arrive.
I will sleep in the hole of the reindeers
and the passing bear will save me
because it is greedy only of strawberries.
The sages had already announced
that the god was only passing.
In a precise point of the globe
there is the extraordinary meeting
of the last holy men.
They leave their religion
because don’t believe to anything anymore
and seem happy, hung up to the sky
like pioneers of the firmament.
Someone has hidden in heart
unmentionable secrets. A deity
held over a long time for comfort
to inflame fellows and prophets.
Goodness knows as it would be without altars
to converse with omega centhauri
or with so distant stars
to notice them only from time to time.
If one has the spirit in pieces
can at all open the window
on the dark warm night
imagining behind the scenery.
Perhaps Venus would have more light
giving back the human more calm.
Around these lands
I command, like a despot
like the crocodile in the swamp
of my ghost city.
The white pope receives the angels
and the black one drives away the demon.
It is bad season at this point
even for the meteorologists
until the raged river
will not make peace with the people
who drove away the artist
and took care of the hairy monster.
It’s a river that changes color
now is green, now is yellow
now grey and brown
and all they hate it. It is pitiless
revengeful, rude.
He doesn’t tract with care who lives there close
and is not respecter of persons.
When it desire to exit, it exits
satiated of atlantic rains.
Even without much water
it kills who stares at it
who falls voluntarily
within the quiet and assassin wave.
They say I have a beautiful mouth
and eyes that pierce the silence.
I do not make any noise
as muddy, stinking lake.
As soon as I can I throw down
the shapes over the gold bridges.
Among all the rivers I am the infernal one.
I am known, feared like such.
I am the river of Ade.
1
If you don’t feel well in your world
come into a wilder place.
There blows the wind Pazzacchione
that gets into the filthy ears
a little hard to understand
the broken noises of the planet.
Once within pavilions
Pazzacchione doesn’t go out anymore
and you live with continuous hisses
until it does not devour you
and sends you even more distant.
It’s a very courteous wind
that gets come back home without shoes
the girls off duty
like statues barefoot and nude.
2
If you feel well in your world
the stones will drive you crazy
put one over the other
by geniuses died since too many centuries.
Of you little thing will remain
since nature will help history
to cancel the names you gave yourselves
each other for consideration.
Already started the last act
unuseful to modify the script.
Immense ghosts improve
over of you asking for revenge.
I would not want to be there
in your unlawful places
you will have to leave in a hurry.
It will be your turn, at last
to escape like fugitives
from the new Foreign Legion.
While grass grew
I cut it with glued fingers
and it grew again.
Andy said to me of last supper.
I drank tea, coffee, wine, beer
waiting for the moon to come.
Nobody ate chocolates
nobody drank, and their noses were purple.
Andy warned me: “Hi, Nico
don’t believe who talks about me
like a holy soul of paradise”.
You are ready for every forbidden thing
and if what on which you believe
crossed the ocean and the air
at the faint lowering light
you would put in order an unusual existence
with a nearly perfect wedding
and the funeral of the infant of court.
He will be in time to end the crayons
with which he scribbles the air
thinking about incredible maps
like they were genuine masters?
Time runs click clack
and when there is full sun
he puts on wool gloves
and when it’s cold as hell
he goes half-naked, rambling.
Dishevelled, heedless of himself, of the road
he is a human who has great effect
from a life on the deep aesthete.
I love a kind of scientist
behind the matter of the cosmos.
His plans on all the walls
are my natural weft
on which carefully lay down
the gifts of the wild sense.
Atom oscillations. It is nothing.
Long shadows from leaves, branches
ripped by reddish outbreaks.
Strangers shapes invade the valley
and men die in many
then are born again as many
under the light running in climb.
So many offers to divine plan
to providence that misses roll-call
help you to defeat fear
before seeing to the naked eye
while you live fluctuating
a lot is decomposed, leaving
that planets still rise.
I spent seasons of dance
then those dispersed to humours
still others of hard activities
and then the resting thoughts
approaching you to the galaxies.
And every desire, disease of power
eagerness for temporary thing
was unravelled and recomposed fast
over heaps of burning coal.
Atom oscillations, before and after.
You don’t remember of so much
having to begin over again
while the changes advance
and devour insatiably.
The dazzling indifference
leads to you with velvet hands
where day rises two times
and night covers forever
but you are equally cheerful
to continue for the milky way
like greedy human, disgusting
in search for curious sweetnesses.
Moderately, with eye
staring elsewhere. And meanwhile you live.
Where this light hand will lead us
locking eyelids to the wind
observing the natural phenomena
from the window of human loo
on the train of an only class
with gentlemen and boors of every age
unaware of the meter that will mark
the inches of length and width
to put into a furnace to maintain
or to burn for few seconds?
The existence of the old girl
is the outbreak of an immense star
so luminous, pulverized of conversations
noses up and down, mouths
from a multicoloured postcard
with over written: "I love you"
in the multiple human languages.
This dancer of other ages
hidden under thick discs
badly looks at the river
searching for a powder
that would recompose her in the immense light
fragment on fragment sparkling.
She has no more first and last name
not had more name and surname
but for fun. Now she is Pulsar.
He was seeking sun between fog
a difficult balance of the sky
he did not succeed to decipher
when day becomes
like dark and never changes.
It was the first and only time
he went out for new lands.
He felt her legs weakens
the thought was sifting
a different way to live
that was not bad really.
Everyone could dream, become
what does to smile always
rubbing hands satisfied.
It was enough the fog vanished
he would have seen clearer
on its empty pages
would have taken shape the score.
The appearance of the past, the rituals
the fake truth, the performances
of rosary at the table of powerful
everything disappeared in the foggy world.
Little by little he felt a force, a motion
pulsion towards income in sunlight
and the knight continued
in the splendid horseback raid
between grey of rain clouds.
He perceived the buzz life after death
of a lively population
a Japanese tribe of artists
caretaker, patron of the customers.
The sun at last leaked between the smokes.
He is nailed to his portraits
nearly wanted to jump inside
absorbed by the poor Triska
or by the thin pigtailed Russalka.
It’s a weird arcade.
A female is stone-dead
confused between a thief and an assassin.
Is lonely the sad little prince
cries, wetting his laces
while the rich acrobat
teaches the art of the illusion.
The sage listen to every sigh
weights the sand of the hourglass.
A girl sews her skirt
to dance at her party
and flee to the large town.
The investigator reads again every book
searching of new mysteries.
Confusion in this show
without authors, presentations
without age, nor diabolic game
between picture and man who does not age.
A passionate search
of right parts for the actor.
It is suitable a certain harshness
a day more for powder
kiss over and over behind the tent
to live nearly poorly
because more aesthetic than luxury.
The invisible sister is there
exposed against the sun. She waits
patiently her turn
showing only the net profile
of an ironic grimace, bothered
by unusual smoke ascending
after a night under storm.
At the mirror she looks herself entire
it happens to her very often
to blunder personal characteristic.
But we must imagine
how will be her lacking side
that sleeps now satisfied.
Because it is always a surprise
the moon when it is filled up.
Which call of the wild
makes us come back nearly children
living around the filled cake?
The plant grows, the beast frolics
and I see the artist tenuous
advancing with tight shoes.
Is ready the spaceship that conveys
who wants to go elsewhere
towards an enlightened place
warmed up by two or more suns.
It’s a continuous bloom again of every thing
under the multiple sloping rays.
The nights shine as much
of more moons, stars without name
nearly unknown to the science.
It’s a special place
where someone can stay
and others burn themselves easily
before losing their minds.
Here, accelerated departure.
Who remains at earth is unlucky
who goes away has many suns
and can play as much as he wants.
Come down the shadows from the castles
until the valley of the murderous river
spiteful child. To the towers above the villas
the belltowers, the cribs of the poor, rich ones
and the bunches of flowers for the drowned ones.
In the captive earth of strange despots
incestuous, unhealthy. The beautiful ones are sad
the free ones return before dying.
Florence is no more since long time
since when they quarrelled with waters
for fear of the words of a book
in the days in which the hawk pilgrim
built its nest under the dome.
At the window over the walk at main street
He interrupts his chess game
bored. He does not know what to buy
he is too rich to enjoy of it.
He is of the human kind
And cannot be but unhappy
when closes the market of the world.
What will he do of his time
is quite useless to nothing, nobody.
He can burn it and throw it into Gange
or stop it in footbridge
pretending of being the owner
of a handful of weak years.
Personages you believed eternal
are destined to the extinction.
He is tired of their names
And does not matter to him anymore
to save the animal and the plant.
Every thing of concrete
resembles him, accompanies him.
And who is happy, is deceived for little
who is not suffers scared.
Neither one, nor other by now
are on his side step by step.
He has already bronze face
and soon unavoidably
he will be the stone guest.
White code. You walk
above the whipped cream. Light
a cloud cleans up the road
and you wear the garment of the confirmation
snow white of laces and tops.
White teeth laugh to you from above
and someone who has not of it more
calls you from over the stairs.
He is your grandfather who wants tobacco
for his whitish pipe.
The cupboard is floured
and the old cat Pina
soiled all its whiskers.
Red code is the stony ravine.
You with closed eyes
saying goodbye to the world forever
while the car beats
bouncing on the precipice
and two earth sods save you.
A red room, a seat
with the love naturally
that moves under the garments
burning the cheeks of drops.
The long disjointed descent
from every precise clock
and the love has its sweat times.
Green code you are, runner
the energy of every day that is born
speed and songs that end
one behind the other, no matter
since you will find new others.
And you run, run, searching
landscapes for your story
that will end however calm
under a white staircase
while you smoke a white cigarette.
You will have over a red well-being.
I
Mysterious passages, breaths
from the matter fine worked
manage that from voice to voice
transmit each other messages in the fog.
Not from ghosts to livings
in the darkness of the eternal night
but from atomic similitudes
that sometimes intersect, attract.
Elementary interceptions
in special places, vacuums
can hit our senses
to such a point not to distinguish more
where is pure imagination
and facts openly.
Unavoidable loads, inheritance
of who preceded us
in good and evil
in greatness, in misery.
Without asking anything, simply
the ancestors want to still live.
Without ceremonies, allergic
to every civil rituality
they reappear from the deep
for obvious similitudes.
Even willing, with reason
there is way to escape
these natural duties.
II
My face is a secret
vivisected by filthy hands.
Stop seeking it, go away.
Faults don’t disappear on the way
useless any seal, any tax.
If I could come down from this statue
you would know what is the pain.
Nostalgia never satisfied
makes me love the ancient dwellings
and the houses are drawn at river
waiting for ferryman.
Now I would put head foremost
the puppets that act me anywhere.
Smeared of dirty things
make themselves pretty with me
with obvious abuse of power.
And of them you would see feet only.
III
And always from the deep sleep
or from the slight, morning one
are drawn abstruse words, not yours
that there and then seem normal to you
but evidently they are not
and at the awakening you know with certainty
they come from ages ago.
They are answers, councils, explanations
of the humans similar to you
that you don’t remember, and you dislike.
Hush... don’t say it to anybody.
Remain faithful to the nature
and your spirit will join easily
to the tenebrous common origin.
IV
What did they do to strolling player
who chatted near the market?
They sold him for little money
to a butcher of pigs
in search of easy earnings.
And over his theatre now
they built a wretched temple
that would drive away the devil.
Instead of the ancient actors
the exorcists sharpen their knives.
And more ahead in a bookcase
they sell holy pics with rhymed couplet
between a blood crime and another.
Here in a time much far away
a wise and generous patriarch
built a marvellous island.
And now there is no kind of court
that could grant a Lasca
nor a Lichera to sell fruit
or a pure, simple minstrel of god.
Here they hire agreement fools
of those who lend themselves to all.
An armed carnival explodes
projectiles instead of confetti
behind madam Europe, fat
crazy more than a bell tower.
Matron come down to the road
from her graveyard palaces
wrapped with vixens of the desert
on slippers as Red Cross nurse.
Spinning stars of planes in sky
while the hysterical bawls to passer-by’s
that she does not send them to mortacci loro
indeed, she takes them to drink coffee.
Suddenly she whispers ecstatic
because draws inspiration by Magna Greece
and then she seems to take breath
transmitting to the entire world
with special alphabet
that saying he is dead is little thing
for the enigma to decipher.
The carts of the parade arrive
to interrupt the conference
on as to stop incoming mail.
Mandatory is time that runs.
The time really flies.
Where you have seen someone
after a moment it is cloud
and you ramble alone
listening to unknown at the corner.
Ingenuousness makes you believe
there is always a fable
still to begin
where you have just put down the cross
to continue light.
Did you ever try to escape
to your innate strangenesses
not to enjoy of them to an exorbitant price
while the others pass
under the iron hat
not to have your fate?
The baskets are full
of heads cut off badly.
The friends have gone away
without entering to see the cross
for congenital ignorance, or fear.
I approach near the sleep
crossing again some infinite
that nobody would understand. The quiet
opens a passage to desire.
I am not able to do other in the suspension
springboard of launch in the void.
And I have a cheerful dream.
I tried to see this place
with the pages of another diary
but that being was under passion
while I don’t memory what is
under influence of bitter irony.
There are not only Virgin Marias
waiting for offering gifts
to knights latecomers
and the palace is consumed in vain.
There is something around that brakes
the crazy run of desire
I am not alone. The other
carried already here
the love that yelled from the train
and walked under his breath.
Immense pauses of years
and then uncontrollable outbreaks
courses against mother nature.
I see myself shoot slowly
like blurred, aquatic
and the other captured by the sound.
I saw that fire
can win water
but it was a weird design
buried by torrential rain.
In rainy days I drink tea
without teapot. Decaffeinated coffee
and then pure beer. If sky stops
to cry its miseries
I exit, and I don’t drink but water
of sources where it rained
and there is liquid in abundance
for fields and harvest.
Rhabdomancer who seeks in day
a handful of beautiful things
to evoke in the hours of sleep.
I met an old gentleman
who wants to create a villa
with map copied from Pompei
after the one of Tegucigalpa.
He is convinced that this is
the purpose of his life.
I accompany him to buy the land
and I feel myself like in a movie.
So, if you have desire of it
choose your best time
and come for breakfast to me.
I will let you see a picture
of tears and earthquake
on how much are wicked the humans.
There will be some saint also for him
well hidden to escape to the fate
inexorable, in arrival with the beam
of meridian emerald color.
I am reading the texts of the past
but there it is burial silence
and outside an extreme uproar
while they execute slaughters
where is the glorious grave
of who has seen the future.
When you leave something
it appears to you more splendid
even if you have already seen it
thousand and thousand times.
There is a cheerful group
taking it easy, buying
souvenirs for when it will come back
singing down in Alabama.
There will be some saint this evening
also for him, who has no more anybody.
Chinese women sell fast
silks and toys to the Moroccans
in a side of changed world.
Better to be illiterates, bastards
than reading at the mirror
you are near the end.
He came back to a soft Rome
where young Arabs kicked
in a cheerful match
while beautiful American boys
sang renaissance choruses
to enter to the religious party.
He understood that the silly asses
were enclosed anywhere
in palaces or coves
armored by coin on coin.
He felt better at the idea
that they were slight minority
and that the other players
or singers of every country
would have besieged them, defeated
knocked down sooner or later.
When he was without a lot
he believed in many things
and dreamed much more.
The possibility to change
was still within reach
and another easter at the doors.
God to this should serve
to believe that powers cannot last
forced ignorance, hunger
blows and little sugar
thrown to bootlickers and odd fellows.
While I graze the world at home
satisfied, waiting for good news
I am present at exodus of insatiable multitudes
continuous emigrations between pebbly ruins
relics of ancient empire and mossy lairs.
The river is sullied gaudy
by the remainders of the last supper
and the fire of the huts of tin.
Nevertheless cling to shores
drowned and condemned, resuscitated
after the war, the end of a story
too short to be told.
I am exalted by the love poison
not having any choice
to satisfy my senses
that flying over the temples, alone.
Born near Pompei, of noble origins
lived little and well, in spite
of the apocalypse without gods
according to a yelling nature.
Poison slides within me
and I see every day to come
so clearly to seem to me true.
My Italy is not the boredom of today
the refined monsters that fart slowly
biodegradable shit, stools of flies
dead stuck to the paper assassin.
My native land was the girl with donkey
who gets married and goes far away
captured by the expired calendar
of a family that is no more.
There is something that restores back
to the taste of the trail of tomato
gotten ready by the girl with the ass.
And I realize that the future on Mars
is like that simple native land
that was not ashamed of the poverty
provided that cleaned like the grain of May.
Climbs on the train of country
the elderly actress, quite preserved
and kisses her escort.
It was Italy very happy
to go to sleep in the evening
and to awake again in the morning.
Dunghillers always are depressed
and laugh hysterical for a nothing.
He lived at musical village
in the road of the wrong musician.
Upstairs lived
men who did not sleep anymore
and downstairs very hardly
woke up ready to walk asleep.
The cart was full of rotten flowers
objects that last less than meat
if jerked by a move to another
without a hand to fix them.
The systems analyst unwind the knots
of wires of a broken phone
and it was useless to drag suitcases
if to pursue there is a fierce beast.
He lives still today of fantasies
and wakes up all sweat
because sooner or later he will have to stop
on the threshold of the silver chapel.
Too nervous, intolerant
towards upstairs and downstairs.
The assassin sometimes mistakes
and proud shows in square
the medals to the civil valour
the photos of all his victims
with the invitation to find their bodies.
Who passes nearly is moved
by the imaginative version of facts
where the assassin is the savior.
The face of the last killed one
is exposed in front of the palace
and who defends his slave
spends every day to pay homage.
At the bottom of the green mirror
there are the models of a painter
who before painting their bodies
makes up and dresses them as whores
then he sells them to marry, have sons
throw themselves to sea from old.
I had indigestion of plasma
of massacres introduced like ceremonies
of kisses from judas to judas
of filthy Italian things.
And there is no Arno that could rinse away
what Tiber carries to surface
showing pitiless to the whole world.
My body relaxed in sunlight
Is the one of the cheerful baboon
but also that one of the emperor
and of the singer come from the fields
under Rome, to play for the sublime ways.
Every big and small animal
could be he coming back
tired of Orpheus, of his sonata
so stolid, useless complaints
of defeated lover that is not resigned
to the years that pass for all
but for the gentle crib
where every creature amuse and lies down.
Now I enjoy the orange heat
watching the indigo and the green
but later it will be the black velvet
to cover the body and the thought.
Happy who is in my place
being able to go in every where
since lizards, spiders, bats
already revealed the mystery
and carry it in his hands
so that he can recover.
There is just nothing to chase
or you could mislay on the road
but only the ecstatic otium.
Please live calm, don’t be foolish.
Latin moon with head wrapped
by thousand planetary interferences
every so often I crouch and speak to you
since only in this way I am myself
a wandering puzzle between nebulas and holes.
How much powder climbs from the outbreaks
following every shining conflict
while from Pantheon I play empire
disguised as tin warrior!
And they make to me thousand photos
then to return into lairs of mice
to laugh of geese and centurions.
At the end of my day
only you remain, the same moon
latin survivor of the past times.
Then I strip myself of fake laurels
and I return disconsolate to Saxa Rubra.
I reflect on the changeableness.
And there is not ratio that helps here
long haired without religio.
Along the river underground
they live in many, encamped
at the doors of the gaseous empire.
They jump helter-skelter over the train
that passes every 10 minutes.
They go between romans, etruscans, huns
vandals and boors. Gipsies trampled
by their relatives already civilized
demolished, blinds and miraculously healed
rarely fellows of some god.
They extract eyes for a sesterces
send females to prostitute
and fire their enemies.
Different skins under the river
nourishing themselves of poor otters
one day free to amuse
on surface of acqua acetosa.
I was born in a bus
low and squeezed, the number five.
For this I continue to wander
go up, come down for the Urbe.
Ten years of unexpected stops
departures and worried returns
glances cast from the doors
blocked at the red traffic lights.
Evenings in which I write verses
because I am not able to shake
from the subway a cast of agreement.
Urbe is my room of the games
and when I stop with it, I put on their places
dolls and immovable puppets
shining, centrifuged, in rows
for tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.
Urbe gives me many dreams
without ever granting to me anything.
Getting detached from them it is impossible
like leaving an elusive love
or worse still a heavy drug
Improbable life for the Urbe
a mirage that it is perpetuated.
Player of harmonica half dumb
in this foreshortening of secular beginning
that already someone would want to drive
towards the flood of divine anger.
I am merry for my business
half-naked facing the morning.
I blow my instrument
in the algid city to live
and lie down in the fertile country
heating me like bear or deer.
One of these silver nights
I saw men killing each other.
Then I took a puppy
company to try my luck.
Doggy defends me from myself
growling with small teeth.
Puffs the train that from Tuscia
enters indiscreet in the heart of Urbe.
Furies, the veiled women come down
contracting their eyebrow.
Politicians, parasites, shoo, move out!
Exhausted journalists quite breathless.
A dull dressed as jamaican
a stupid one thousand times recycled
come down from the villa of daddy.
The distillery of east Europe
overflows of vodka the still air
digestive at Tor di Quinto
unattended level crossing
human nature in mincemeat for dog.
I am seated over a black hole
how I will able to go back?
Dream I or am I awaken? I don’t know.
I am brutally hungry
I will drink over as usual.
The middle east company
plays musics of the desert.
There is the curly adolescent
that is between teeth of the Lupa
in a theatre of travertine
spying on the party of the village
enclosed in a walnut shell.
Every so often she finds there really
a similar portrait
rambling even he for the park.
Like her he will believe himself alone
deceived by a living statue
in his garage, the musician.
She expects thousand attentions
I cannot give her anymore
and reason goes and comes
when I must leave her alone.
Transparent prisoner, she has me
who see her, still believe in her.
You have the right thumb broken
with which you grasped the things.
Now you are obliquely, lefthander
discovering of being capable
to make everything backwards.
Afraid in front of the humans
arriving from war front
accustomed to tears, not to dances.
You sway between the fog of sultriness
veiling the Urbe, quivering.
You remember you had legs
before they cut down away them
to dedicate you the next party.
You sharp your look, passenger
between babies who cry already
impatient of to die beforehand
while the old ones aim their shoes
and don’t want to die ever.
Someone standing already is died
without even paying attention.
Today you saved your skin
of lizard with tail cut off
and it will not replace forked to you
under the broken knees.
Nobody knows you, boy
they will leave you in your ailments
until you will get tired there
on the threadbare hill.
The place where now are the livings
is small, dusty, disfigured
and is immense the cemetery, full load
empty, graves to land, chapels of stone
new small plasticized lamps, faces
known a little, a lot, nothing.
Gewgaws, flowers, frames, smiles confused
with the illness and the death.
Classification of the deaths, numeration.
At present remains of everyone
the essential structure, workmanship
dust, the most beautiful moments
embraces to disowned friends.
There is no other under the usual vault
unless would not escape to us
another not represented
in the last search of the sages.
Let’s do an agreeable halt
sniffing spiced smell
climbing from the subsoil wet
by four drops of red water.
Dawn declines towards the afternoon
not religious ceremony before you.
“I had not noticed up to now
how much were turd the humans
tedious, foregone, worst
than any earthly animal.
More attractive and right is nature
even when it is ruthless assassin
since the things, the plants as the beasts
can also have no spirit
and live or survive.
The humans would be highly gifted
but doesn’t serve them even the god”.
I heard curt curses
just under his statue
but the emperor was not on horseback
had come down at three of night
to scrutinize the row of ruins
and the animal stayed waiting.
I thought I had a dream.
The singer worked in the open air
slow like the variable weather
with sudden releases, drowsy
by the poison he sipped
like pure water of source.
He didn’t want humans next
but like the cat and the merlon
loved to hear them from far away
and then enjoy of solitudo.
Probably he was not born wealthy
or nobleman like now they are saying
having within himself the things
that want the rich, powerful ones.
Satisfying himself with figs, honey
relaxed between thick vegetation
he became the last symbol
of the centuries spent on the earthly throne.
Then invaded the ancient world
crowds of poor starved
searching for the life
suddenly after the earthquake.
Why your king has a bath
in bulky gold, and you
have no water to drink?
Perhaps because the earth sweats
a black liquid, and the king
takes on also a dark drink
sugary and swollen of gas
on your skin, on your hairs
over your poor back.
They never give you anything
rebel of unhappy oasis
great big how you are
powerful in lungs, sneeze
thrifty ruminant.
Then the camel blew
an extreme sigh, re-entering
peaceful into a package of paper
so small that you can see
hardly like eye of the needle.
I visited with the fantasy
a new, unexplored site
in which the king who had the dark liquids
made be well his faithful subjects
did not die anymore of difficulties
drinking water and colored gas.
Which is the supreme authority?
Between death and evil
wins always death
that sometimes kills quickly
the most obscene monsters in circulation.
So, who killed children and beasts
for fancy to steal their heart
died under lava of volcano
with expression of extreme fear.
In the last instant of the monster
death removed its arrogance
charred its nails one after one
when he was still alive
and smoke went out boiling from holes.
It’s nature that purified the world
from who wanted to burn its fellows.
Death surprised also me
with poison in hand, happy
to get free from an incapable
a body relaxed to sleep forever.
But I laughed, without fear of death
because it was not pain, and less the evil.
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