Prose
» Romanesque
» In a wild state
» Catherine Wheel
» Seven Sages
» Recreation
» Mandala
» Wandering riders
» Sabba
Poetry
» Beyond curtain
» A love poison
» Plautinus
» Blind world
» Plancton
» Jack O'Lantern
» Giotto's pastels
» Mab
» Preludes to Lutin
versione italiana
english version
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How much fortune is necessary
to turn suddenly
in bottom to the painted landscape
and to enter without noise
in the field of my miracles!
How many errors fixed,
still canceled
for living to the free luck
with the merlon behind the hawthorn.
Hello, hanged over the hill
hung on the high trees.
I cannot melt the rope
I do not have time to lose with you.
I prepare myself for the red century
velvet on the Nordic forest
where the noble elk plays with its puppies
and silk powder towards south
under the sun and the hungry lion.
Who was I, do you remembered it?
oh, nothing, better therefore.
Someone will know me now
in infinite Russia of the Czar
thinking of having in front a ghost.
Watch my open hand
the mysterious line of an uncertain
origin furrows of the life.
Admire the pale blue dress
that enunciates audacious, while around
it comes slowly dark and died.
When the electrical contact runs away
and the skin of the metropolis chaps
like it had corrosive leprosy
don't dream to clean up banks
and overflowing markets of delights
but run away to the forest of the plane trees.
Tread on the dry leaves, sink
the feet, stumble, and a tree
will capture you in its log dug
like deep cavern.
You will speak with the little man about the secular silence
not infected by the meany breath
of the greenish dredge of iron railway.
It is kind with who comprises
the language of mud and wood
the amusement of the powder.
And when you return home
you will have another breath
of immovable and live thing.
The pregifts of the desert without sand
barred in their grim tunics kid the mummer Semplicione
christened also with the name of Pacione.
For good fate, Eros elsewhere
is hidden to the world, sealed
in the dwelling of answers without question.
And the loves are born therefore, random
where nobody succeeds in seeking them
in the middle of the smile and tears
between the spore of an ancient plant
that very rarely offers a delicate flower
and never fruits of which satiate itself.
Like in a turned tape
I am here, to the beginning. But it is not true.
As then they hate my rich harmony
and they prepare deadly traps
that release to them.
How much is sad who cannot
never show himself at his source
and mirror lovingly
without caring of the other people's madness
that flows in sky as air bugle!
Leave that the longest sleep
wraps to you in its stench.
When you will wake up,
watch on up, beyond the mausoleums
and you still will see me, uncatchable.
So much pathetic envy for nothing
against a smooth fluvial stone
that slips in its transformations
entertaining itself at the bottom.
For so many dead killed men
are in slaughters Rome
it is natural that in every step
there is a church, an altar
an armed avenger angel
and pitiful priests and nuns
in aid of which exhausted pauses.
Here we will learn to lie
from the bad cynical and vile people
that spits on salt and earth
believing it never has to come
the sweet nun with the rolled up scythe.
It's a day whichever in the City
when in dream the spatial
eater tricker appears to me.
If ears hiss to you
it is her step that resounds ultrasonic.
Prisoner behind the net rusted
in company of ants and cetonies
from the white garden to the emerald green garden.
A portrait like the most beautiful thing to the world
I remember the distance backwards
now that I have abandoned it
and wander for wide ownerships.
Escapes continuous and returns
made me reach,
student of aligned planets
above, taking care of and fixed
with the shelled eyes like pearls.
Perhaps it could appeal to me
to remain in this space
that disappears with the light
but lets me see in the darkness.
I have as assiduous assistant
the storeroom monk, special cook
for the happiness of every child.
It overwhelms my pantry of greediness
and for every tear, a cream puff
for a bad thought, the hop
and cookies to the almond, annealed
cauliflower, candy, white bread
for Pinocchio at the fairy desk of the snail.
I abandone myself to the food like to the love
supreme necessary pleasures to the body
that no bugaboo will be able to raven
since the storeroom monk takes the mincer
and makes milled for his little mice.
"Gentleman of the sighs, give also bread today to us!"
The Tevere spoke between the sights
in the age of means, under the tower
filled up of corns and gold.
Birds and witches flew
on the bridges with the fatuous fires.
There are forces remained in nature
that in the night punish
help suddenly
make riddles and spites.
I know of their enhancements
because they indicated fortunately
that I did not want at all costs.
I pass and I hear the callbacks
I ask to the walls of my caretaker.
Something must be thrown away
when the cerebral bucket is filled
and it does not have anymore sufficient space
for thoughts never before grazed:
old desires to change bodywork
old stale friendships, dreams
slippers open in tip, lies
that shed water everywhere
staved affections, that time to time
lose pepper and open wide yawns.
It does not remain but to raise the shoulders
to dust the garments, and to say "adios!"
with the haste to find ourselves elsewhere.
I have met a friend, at the park
outspread in the wind over the acorns
buried from a quintal of leaves
and he was amused to sink and to reemerge.
Pacific as a big bear
had dug its comfortable hole
to tickle the back and the feet.
It had name of king and smile of stableman
who knows one by one his beasts.
We were both of another time
the one of the clocks to repair,
hours after hours with the white-haired wise man
who left out always to the same hour
and you could regulate the pointers on it.
When I left my friend
he ignited a big cigar
and went to bank.
Hungry envious of the circle
of shit and mounted cream
run behind the pioneers of the West
to rob them of their assets
in name of sacrosant rights.
Every gold coin will be stolen
or it will be given back to the fire of hell.
Therefore they scream, blinking to earth
coffee pots of wood, tin, plastic
unapt to their pregevole use.
Those true ones are already safe
with the guards of the gunmen
in the most pleasant inn
outside from the battered tracks.
To the end of the game, the two children
noisily laughed of the monster.
Turn around under the tree of apples
and always seek the most tempting
but leave it there. Only watch
while it becomes from sour, juicy
delicious to the look and the palate
nectar of the insane and sadist gods.
And then, languidly, it goes in ruin
wasting away uncultivated, full of worms
until the rook and the crow
eat it until satisfied seeds cleaning up the spout.
Everyone would want to taste of the flavor
and you have imagined it,
smell hoping with passion that someone
could sooner or later offer
defying the curse of the empire.
The dead men speak to the river down
while they wash the starch sails
that make them invisible to the world.
Exclamations, between the ivy and its lovers
the shrunken woods of the trees.
Extensions of thin embroiderys
in the place of the little monsters
where the dogs go fishing.
It's the zone of border between the serene
life sequela of tears and laughs
fast food opened no-stop
and something of light abandonment
to the wind, the silence, the absolute rest.
When the year of the snake is ended
with its unavoidable tragedies
I met the poet of the flowers of lotus
running behind the winged horses
to tame them beyond the horizon.
I am overwhelmed from feracious evils
that I try to blow far away
while I offer floreal homages
to the contrary forces to the life
and bury under strands of mallow
the carcass of a poor merlon.
I would want that the goddess emperor
alleviated the piercing pains
giving to me a future part.
Oh, is night without moon.
Nothing looks at us clear
neither up, neither low.
I lost the paper of the aruspex
but they are again energetic
like the Lucrezio nobleman, when
he saw the nature extreme of the things.
Very small witch of the day lost
near the water sigh poisoned
from the fusty lighning of the moon.
Stop to speak with me, wanderer!
Love me like I were your enemy
to the rhythm of the incessant
masked dance around the ravenous maelstrom.
Every insipid man makes his twirls
until he is tired depresses, and silent.
I am the wizard of the bad men
and only someone find me pleasant.
And while the time strikes the battery
and the love is a good for nothing
I work hard in every where.
Tell me that you hate me truly
my scared preferred bruja.
My stone smiles
remaining as usual motionless.
I am fixed, ignoring myself
resisting to a thin rope
that emphasizes to me which symphony.
I wanted to get rid of whims
and curly of the insane adolescence
but they are here again all in row
to make grimaces from the mirror.
Crimes are not enough cruel, scandals
the horrible things of one extreme life
to cancel my solar spot.
A lot is worth that I laugh over.
Here the pollened air of the concubines
with the little beasts in love
that churn scented of March.
Who is allergic sneezes
under to full apples of bees.
Someone creases his eyes
reddens from the unexpected light
after the darkness and the rain.
But who waits trembling every year
dips in another age
of very weighted existing.
Fatally she is victim of an exaltation.
Aedo of april, thin exhausting
deflowered from thousand hands
anxious of knowing the mysteries.
I have, me too, one demanded white mark.
After the time of the virgin
ran away backwards towards the incubus
and that one of the court checkers
murderous intriguer insolent person
make that the healthy days
of the student in the cell of the friar come.
I already know how is that child
who holds the pen badly
while she learns to say the vocals.
And while he danced,
connected to the old usual love of always
slowly he saw crystals on the wall.
He tried to count them, but they were elusive
as tears of pain
gone history, history to come.
What we will be, to take apart piece to piece
the levantine contrivances of the dream?
Perhaps anyone, except that we are now,
here, smiling like dulls.
And behind so many cryings, how many pains
of torments inexpressibile, to the dawn.
He lived protect within walls
that the father had constructed
and anymore did not succeed to catch up
the land surface, the breath
of the great mother absent.
He wove far away the praises
of planets aligned to himself
in playful way to south
without crosses, only shadows white
pale capes opened in the desert.
No noise, the wander of the water
to cover my secret Atlantis.
You resist to the cruelty
that the men have therefore beloved?
Then you are ready to be born again
in the great luminous spaces
that the mind grants, after a year
of abstinence from the wandering words.
I opened the cage of the monkeys
because they returned up, on the trees
to churn themselves and to unlouse themselves
to show the yellowish teeth.
And I, under the palms more and more freed from Hush.
In the moment of joy of the plants
and the animals in escape
the humans think badly
of every angel who puts down itself near.
Fears and doubts on the arrival of the wind
and sliding of lights and dusk.
The trunk of the happiness
is more and more high, resists
to the leaves that become yellow.
The snake rolls up to rope
and the life is the usual soup
that smells of the hardest bond and.
Oh, fragment of dissolved spirit
eagerly, not upset anymore
from the events, ambush, extended
to the shelter under the conifers!
Remember nearly the wasted hours
spent to make you with the other people's evil badly.
The disturbance is not worth the pain
to follow the ants boring
in parade one behind the other
towards the supine bodies
live or died anyway they are.
As pirate of Tortuga
I do not have more fear of you.
Picaresque moth I am
blinded from the light of the beacon.
And my distance is traced
clearly from sculptress hand
that sent all to the final judgment.
After a lot to ramble, I will be easy-going
to every hour that knocks to the border.
Open is the new park of the games.
There is a small train that arrives in head to the world
passing for a lunar pruning knife
that sniggers placid and foggy.
A sheared cat
catches the flies in garden.
A child blows on the powder
behind the bench of the scents oriental.
And if you move an object to you beloved
is a sigh of your mind
that dumb behind the ears
until that it does not become word.
It's one means scene, Lutin
Don't leave the reflectors!
From the trade of the crews
to the smoking cake, in kitchen
where tired you will find again the chalks
of your primary school.
Every as well as I put down the great weight
of the world that is not like me
a dance agitated of pigeons
in attended that the mad speaks
in the square that all know.
"I can curse to you, you and sons!"
inheritage of an age makes a din
from the horrible theater country box
that nails an entire nation
to its pizza with mozzarella.
Therefore moves something
below, between the beechs and the magpies
to other rhythm, to mine.
And I, without work, drowse.
A famous musical note commands
underground, in the lair of the lady
who in summer garment in fur
and in winter unconnected undresses herself
smoking one hundred cigarettes, and spreading
a lipstick that is violet fire
like the fire that burns in her mind
in every required festivity
when the rest of the world
pretends to love itself and to respect itself
in order then to return to the crime
as soon as the decorations are detached.
And she accurately makes up
on the park bench damageed badly
with next the poet hermit
who takes notes in the darkness.
I miss my sea
the waves that slide peaceful
leaving space the conjectures.
Blocked to earth where null passes
and the things remain piled up
in the last and present disorder between.
The open sea transports happy
the future, in light balance
over the ropes of the singing dolphins.
What says those fish butterfly
in the season of the loves
behind races and empty shells?
The crab always withdraws and it is left
over in order in the same way
that knows like its shell.
Now dumb every thing
the light
of a fixed and strong sun
that invites to be naked willingly.
But still it is soon. It's cold.
Tired, in the tavern of the wolf
without some pointed hood to cover me
I jumped to equal feet the edges
reaching the bleak plain
of a fabulous solitude.
Sometimes I see again sharp teeth
the nails of the predators
that rob the bank of the life.
Scent of wisteria, the leaves of a fig
from the stone fruits, as the asphalt
on which it is obstinate to remain.
I walk with the skeleton frosted
through the time that will come
and I feel myself in the just place
in order to count every night stars
to design the integral moon.
I am the black child, in hand
to the German tourists, pushed about
in the chaos of the escape bowels
of the city that runs untiring.
I will remain here, on the hill made drowsy
with the little song of the Aprilia witch
to dandle the quails
and to throw down powder
on the terraces with the cloth spread
and the scales to come down to the square
to buy ice-creams and cigarettes.
What a sleep I have! It's day
but I say goodnight to you
how much is the torpor of the limbs
that do not move more.
There is not season that separates
to the love from the death
the gems that open before
and are burnt unexpected
in the fixed and cold ether
that the king succeeds in sun
to make to believe to every creature
that in the gasping motion is life
and in the pause to resume force
the impartial Queen ravens us.
I have learned, being to the open
that to wait for the capricious Cupid
is only white mark chimera
and to run to seek it, is a trouble
to look at it running away under the nose.
Then extended, I dream. It does not matter
if the hour flies. There is nothing
to pick quickly. It does not exist.
I am the faithful servant who snorkes
to the feet of the lazy bruja of april.
I have picked by the side of the river
the audacious poppies, the tender sainfoin
elsewhere while were prepared
children to jump for air
in name of a incolore demon
who pushes to disintegrate
the joyful wastig time land.
Not there is red par to my harvest
that brazen thrones on
most useless and disowned the table of.
To try to remake it is impossible.
It can be only watched, to think
that it is a gift in advance payment
on the time that will soon make
with the hot breath of the summer.
Overwhelmed, hatreds motives nostalgic
gone verses badly, bonds
in order to peck the charity between the bugs.
They were the hymns of sudden changes
that, crawling, stumped witness
plundered the silver palaces.
Now, between skeletons and scorpions
they recall cryings to them heartbreaking
of the artist that did not want to die
condemned to hand on of the sound
the bustle of the blood that swallows.
Visit to the seat of the centurions
drowns in their wine, starves
of moneies and grain, under the tower
locked from the sign of the command.
Nothing did the peaceful Tevere
is been worth that invited to slide discs
of a valve with the ashed clocks of God.
The deformed centurions do not listen
to the pretty nature, its light
that winks peaceful to the east.
Equilibrium of wingeds rests
over ancient magnolias.
The centurions more and more grim
improvise ridicules wars
and the painter turns
the long-winded speaker elsewhere
keeps silence with frown.
The women are transvested
that nurse for fiction
an issue of awry howlers.
With two nail on the left temple
you envy the existence of the plants
the chestnuts jolt from the grecal wind.
And you smash the law gladly
in order to pick a rose cluster
that you filler in a garden abandoned
with the recreation unthinking
after the mathematics lesson.
Every breath returns to you
with the precious aid of the plants.
You far away ask excuse the little rose
dry from the solar air trying to refreshen it still.
The time vegetable is not eternal
but ductile and free. You want to be
animal in order to move in the space
or a quality of mineral
stone from the pleasant color
that null perceives, but hard
nearly equal in the catastrophes.
In memory of the delicate allergic
child to the incense in place closed
accustomed to the fields with the high grass
where thousands of little animals hide
passing the time to eat
and it does spites, happy, they.
Now I carry her around
but she strokes the nose at any meeting
heading the finger at who must die.
And are few those to which she grants
that they down dull the wings for the sky
in the bestiary ran away from the zoo,
down, under the teary hill.
Whichever thing I make for her
the baby is bored and sighs
holding the pout until evening
when she hopes to resume the train to Woo
ignoring that he does not exist anymore.
From there rose the female
that runs without clocks
in the metropoli, hypnotized
from an old ruined tower.
She has buried with the war axe
the anguish and the refinements
of an age of the gold never caught up.
She knows of the disasters of the human
and smiles strangely to the fate
defying it to an unknown game
with a bunch of Neapolitan cards
with the figures rich painted.
She still wears little shoes
one day belonged to Amadeus
taking care of photocopy of ancestors
sure worthier than she.
Hypnotic way where everyone goes
and comes, transvested from something
of which she does not remember the name and the last name
that has left dispersed in the offices
where they mark in blue birth and death.
I am watching in the middle air
when they change the dressed ones
to the mockup of the athletic girl
who seems tries to speak and to say
that its display window would want to exit
and to walk barefoot towards Ocno.
In the fabulous flow of the river
that changes into wide with the rain
and dries the banks, drunk from the sun
fishes and duckbills live in holy peace.
I carried my computer to the river
together with pots and blankets, straight.
A gentle wolf watches
to have from me food and job
while I stop with the stupid note-book
annotating lights of a distant city
sufficient to spread a dreaming veil.
From season to season wake up
the human instincts, or succumb by nature
and the statues of the poets do not speak
but to the animals and to the wind.
I
What to say of petrified prophets
that scan threatening
a country of walk-on
without art, neither role?
The door of the flying bodies
international tourist goal
is closed for holidays to the bitter end.
And many bivouac, waiting
for a signal, a call from the sky
to return to enjoy of a time
vanished behind the nebula
between the caravans of the king in escape
and the guns of the new heroes.
It makes the heart feel bad, to observe
the trace of the spirits that touch each other
and feracious desire attacks
to be fused bronze, in forges
of the beauty that governed there.
But then we wake up, searching
what is guarded behind the door
from the hand of a impassible God.
II
From above someone sendes signs
of coolness and enjoyment, while
beyond, hordes of distressed slaves
run overwhelming against the time.
They have sold and bought them so many times
that I have lost the number, thumbing
the dirty pages of the big book
that narrates the less worse the story.
I am with the fool of the village
who believes to what it has under the nose.
They were not memorable enterprises
but ingenious swindles of extermination
and desire to command above.
Now there is an unaware ghost
who paintsmore beautiful what has been.
He was in travel with the dead
transparent musician in the Indian tunic
happy at his tenuous guitar.
Under the train there was a crowd
in march towards water and bread.
Oh, the hungry persons under the bags
of rags and memories of the world!
He boggled of icily fear
not wanting to die at the frontier
in the hands of aliens incoming
in a sorry state and deaf to the sound of the sitar.
The musician half closed his eyes
and offered songs for nothing
to save a friend.
Love long-lasting like stone
polished at the fury of the torrent
before coming to the valley, to the sea.
Hard like disliked trade
antipathetic to every being living.
Misleading like the sun with the rain
beyond suspicion kissing of sirocco
last breath of joy you will be
when stunned by the events
I will sail as air captain
towards another distant memory.
Keep yourself thrifty near
to an incontaminabile nature
escaping like itself in the centuries.
The prize in racing silk is a fear
in less, every day that passes
from the light to the starry darkness.
Refrain of an old nostalgic
and disenchanted song
in front of the beautiful and the ugly
that sorts the human nature
as fruits of end of season.
The angel hides its disowned
and black wing, far away from himself.
And it returns unfaithful to strike
if a memory is colored in the darkness
in the middle of the torbid travel
towards the notorious place
where to the children the teeth lack
to bite their slave drivers.
The dark shape of the angel
is terrible to see
implacable as the enterprises
he performs for divine goodness.
The angelic aureole disappears
when a crime must be
completed, to continue
the ill-famed round design.
It's time that you know
what is existence:
wandering distance
that begins in the hell warmth
and arrives to the final shivers.
We do not know much other
neither how we find ourselves here
in front of the salt statues
that lost the garment and the cithara
but glitter still sentimental
in memory of the childish fencing.
We renew the homages to the love
because it save what remains
of the heat after the birth.
Blows away the exhaust spirit.
Modifiable it is every fragment
of your spirit. Open and close
change your dress, and the dress will follow you.
It will be faster than the slow body
so rudimentary mechanism.
Pinch an Indian guitar
with sure and mild hand.
Blow on your hot spirit
and it will be fresh a long time.
And I found myself in the disperse island
beautiful to be seen, so much it was green
after the high warm and red tide.
Outstretched and without breath, aquatic
element bound to the earth, plancton
dissolved forever from the maternal,
fecund, protecting origin.
I explored the zone scientifically
organizing the days with the sun and the moon.
And I wished that in means to the vegetables
would rise also dumb cannibal
an enemy from which protect myself
but not there was nobody.
Nevertheless I was happy, resonant shell
to the winds and big waves
indifferent son and material
that sends, dreaming tendernesses
signalsbeyond the planet
speaking to the fishes and my sculptures.
I manufactured in the wood, in the stone
everything could be useful
to my forgetful, white days.
I never spoke with myself
for ancient hereditary modesty
or for too much respect of silence
without particular cures of a body
neither of the vague thing, ahead water.
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