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» Mab
» Preludes to Lutin
versione italiana
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A happy boat plows the filthy waters
with the fisherman wrinkling skinned
seeking pikes and big trouts
under the wall of the dead town
to smoke them in the night in the open air
while the neighbors dream for money and pride
or to kill relatives and acquaintances
facilitated by the infernal heat
that transported on the waters a plankton
nutritious and cloying, greedy meal
for many starving little animals.
Some living shapes eat calm
others gnaw their intestines.
Oh eastern ecstatic foreign
who scrutinize defeated empires
go also you to eat and to bed!
These are the days inside the gates
of the dead and burning town.
Appear on the yard of the monsters
who speak with cawing voice
and send off hails of insults
from behind windows always closed
in the light of the morning sun.
This is what you see instead of persons
who one day perhaps had been alive
and experienced the elation of the thought
the pride of being born humen
with the possibility to choose and to do
simple things, useful, good.
Darknesses took clearly
as their wise advisor
the evil for who stays near them
hate, envy, every senseless insanity
could cancel the origin, the clear bank.
They need nails and hammer.
You should enclose your country
inside a barrel quite done
and to make it roll afar, afar
full of moans and abuses.
Alone with a green pencil
I mark the tracks of plankton
that nourish me free as much as I like
since when I plowed the nature
the true one, the wild gate
that maintains and destroys, few ecological.
without digressions, or bewilderments
there is not the new thought
short, rapid, wandering
useful on the instant, or for nothing.
The story is making drowsy
in a cup of chamomile tea
between movements, vibrations, intervals
as it had to celebrate
its last birthdays.
And the plankton is the changeable life.
What was of the Propilei
of the Teachers leaned to the columns
and I, behind their footprints
to play the philosopher on the nothing
geometrical quiver of little duck
automaton, behind the good origin?
Perhaps remains some wise advise
"take care of yourself
use with wisdom also the evil
dominate the entrails, peacefulness
from where you left
exists what you operate".
And then? Echos, precious marquetries
the Pity for the helpless
the anger towards the iniquitous
and so much constant wonder
facing the natural beauty.
Stench of burnt paper wherever
accumulated, wasted away, rotten
packed by curious cars.
To press, to find, to invent.
And the recall of other teachers
other arms marked of intelligence
encourages for the crazy days.
Budda with the eyes as swallow
smiles and doesn't take the war.
If God, any god
is a constant and immense thought
sure he is gotten angry like me
in the middle to the puppets of the peace
to the envious murders, to the unjust
who do not seek, do not want to know
how much costs to gain something
happiness, action, theirselves
instead of falling on deaf ears
pretending to be the best.
I do not believe in a bad god
into serices of rotten nabobs
touched to order everyone.
The stars shine close
to those who detain their ponder on eyelashes.
From the tureen to the New Church
evaporates the smell of the soup
offered by the friars to the starving pilgrims
in the time of the Lord and of the plague
in which they lives without knowing it
and so they become phantoms
that in the night came back again
helter-skelter disguised, to play
a sweet troublesome dirge.
Anguish spreads between the living persons
in perpetual race, not to hear
the smell that climbs implacable
from the burning subsoil damp.
Just they stop, it is done!
They will not return back
and noone will seek them anymore.
I sharpen the claws of the foots
thick like the ones of a witch
born in the open air, uncouth goat
and those scoops I have in my hands
right to plant pumpkins and potatoes.
come away soot, soil
the pose of the iron and of the tobacco
until when I become a big lady
ambiguous and languid, exotic
who breaks every secret mirror.
Drunk and sated musicians
who do not perform symphonies anymore
they take off shoes and socks in the shores of Tiber
between mosquitos and mints.
Their patriotic deity
takes off his tailcoat and drowns himself.
And yet he had two fine moustaches
and a snow-white collar tied in a bow.
Tonight reopens the theater of Apollo
with shady walk-ons in the darkness
while the plankton devours without pauses
the little remaining water.
Move the forefinger with your palm
open yourself to the world, eliminate the drosses
from the place of the artificial boundaries.
Fly on the final version of the stories
that you contain in the other hand closed.
Leave something microscopic
that could not pollute your dirty genus.
Seek what you need now
in the new encyclopedia of the days
and don't waste hours in tittle-tattles
like you did first, to speak
to speak, to speak of the nothing
that fills mouths and bellies like goatskins.
Less presumptuous, undone are
the flowers of the burnt lands
the modest bluish chicory
the nice lilac sainfoin
the last sickly brooms
resigned to a wretched nature
that lost the counts of the seasons
And sometimes it vomits rockets, crazy ingenious.
Green, red, orange, yellow
are spread randomly, with sloppiness.
It does find anymore neither peace, nor abode
the sempiternal oblivious Mother
and so we sleep troubled
and we dream only open graves.
But if she surprises us furtive
still, with slight windy breath
then awakening is sudden
and we dance, and fall in love each other.
So I found myself suddenly
in this greenish hotch-potch
and I should breathe, gulp
and other various and laborious things.
Having to do, little by little
with a small and curly biped
while I began with funny thought
to have on another smooth and high one.
I escaped from the sudden attacks
of thieves and forked tongues
gaining the calamitous gift
to say the truth for fun
that takes to himself tortures and oppressions
since the most tender age.
It is not my intention to quarrel
over bad and well, like manichean Catharist
because everything contains something of it
in amounts blended so deeply
that it is very difficult, of every action
to give the original imprint.
And it is little time still
that I am conscious to be down here
but I cannot contain myself in what I see.
An old woman seated with to open legs
on the threshold of the house, to the dawn
waits for me threatening to the passage
while I pursue the dry marks
of the Greek and Latin Fathers.
Surviving grass, animals to the toil
commotion and heat always alive
that kills a lot of them, God willing
in my newly season of the gold.
Every day I am in long queue
with the white and black monk
who smells of dry chamomile tea
and women half meat, half plastic
sweaty, brown and grey
that look at me with infernal hatred
concealing daggers and stones in bottom.
And men without any understanding
ready to fire from any window
for a coin fall on asphalt
like fodder for poultry in dock.
I assume that this is the paradise
or the dream in which they enter in flocks
disembarking from floats breaks through
from deliberately hijacked planes
the inhabitants of the eastern limbo
or of the African purgatory
and those who make jump everything
not to do the long queue
with irony, for the right side
also behind the friar.
Erika, do you remember that poor house
done of spaghetti with sauce
and shirts like a tv announcer
spread in hustle between a glass and another?
You were friend not with me
but with your twin
remained daughter of a truck driver
while you were kept waiting, and other
in all the palaces of the power.
But I was not your sister
and it is the disgrace that carried you away
like these puppets of the capital
by now blank shots.
A gust of wind from the future
whistles to you, to your comrades:
"He gave up of you willingly
with the indifference of the full belly
while a whole nation
crunchs down the wrong way rotten cabbages".
And knows me seriously
only who did not see me still.
I knew a good poulterer
smelling of feathers and open eggs
asthmatic, with high pressure.
Rumbled along the whole Italy
with the wrecked van of the hay
with the open docks of the rabbits.
And while he sold his poultry
acted as a literary man
with verses as twisted crossword
moving the stout mass
like mountain of jelly.
I figure he did sweat like Turk at the baths
but he is candidate to the prize of winter
and a statue of bovine meat
they will raise in his honor
on the lay-by of the big tubers.
Knight with horse at full gallop
or big face with staircase in mouth?
I am composing the proud coat of arms
of my lineage of marble and stone.
He inhabited a lot of years ago
in the country of the good awake
with the smile of the mole
and the drain in the open air.
I will go to die under his sky
I swore it to my carcass
but by now live around from hand to mouth.
And freedom more than loves
plants and animals in the same measure
Between the wing and the helmet, sincere I revere.
Unstable pleasure is my brightness
filtered across forbidden zones
as hurricane with the name of a woman.
The last man called me Amazon.
The crosses covered of bulky pain
wild vitalities and rare pleasures.
So the City still inflaming
when the nature burns the steppe
and the waters, searching for its origin.
Helps it buried under to the temple Iside
the magical pine-cone and a cat
while Elèna drinks at the source
not to appear a little old lady
and Tono flees next her
like she were always the most attractive.
Underneath every church, in every blind alley
Rome hides explosions
of warriors, of lovers in heat
and she is not able to be holy.
To every joyful thought
a coin of vanilla in pocket
to every dark omen
let the glass fill itself of bitterness.
A matron with hat in layers
chokes in her hood
and they unload on her
a ton of garbage.
Only the headgear remains
crushed as ringed-shape cake
in the middle of Spirit Road
She grew rich
doing and doing the evil eye
with thin veil of widow.
It was not just wicked
as youngster Italy.
Only too light-fingered.
Not too much time left
for the old ludic Leonardo
for the country games
the ambiguous lies of brush
but only the slow charm
of his corporal death.
With the intelligence of who has not a lot
he left for the last summer
to Rome and its cemetery
open four months in a year.
The City is outside from the centuries
it ate too many of them
And some of them went down the wrong way to her.
It will throw out us all
in the nights warm like the day.
The City will not recover anymore
but I will fly above her.
Better to come back to my activity, to the game.
In the middle of the orchard
alarm bells and broken clocks.
Noone fears, let's carry by assault.
The people bird roams
in its earthly paradise
Doing sneers and perjuries.
And new apples in mincemeat
the grapes pierced artfully
tomatoes made as sauce.
The owner groans with his shotgun
counting the figures of the disaster.
It is the summer of the biting dogs
of the arsonists paid by the job
of the sick of sand sun
that disintegrates the temperate shore.
Of the hurricanes without water
of the dead for too much welfare
of the crazy psychiatrists with matchet
against crowds of coleagues and patients.
Whole suicidal families
for love, or for money
and other ones playing for boredom
a million of cards
To win hundred billions.
The teacher of philosophy
seems a retired gravedigger
who was a natural drunkhard
because noone believes anymore
in magnificent progressive lucks.
At night I go into the orchard
before the dawn returns it
to my brothers birds.
And I flutter as small predator.
Rich, stingy funereal agency
always busy from light to darkness
sweeping yards, dusting shutters
feeding animals in dock
sprinkling already dry plants.
Take care of the dead better than the living persons
who wait only for giving up the ghost
To have a little truce.
Who does not resist kills himself before
his destiny would finish
or pretends to have weird illnesses
in exchange for a little understanding
and to the end he gets sick really.
It is the dark and foggy region
in which the luck wanted to scatter me
since the nature is light
fine small picture of Botticelli
and the animals not prisoners
are carefree and wag.
There is an hour to be happy.
Load the grey clock
put on a lucky charm
sniffs the scent of the lotus
run without thinking
to the ones who speak the language
of the mystics and of the bandits.
To enjoy the taste
of a special time
sometimes you should pass
for the country of the stupid monsters
and be rather indifferent.
I greeted many times
the hidden face, without eyes
but it reappears by surprise
and it frightens me still.
I safe myself eventful, or because
I learned, on the way
to create comic spirit
after the opposite school, Greek cryings.
So the melancholic face
lies on the bad planet
with the green and belligerent shrimps
and I in the diamond morning
until the feet will sustain me.
Then will laugh who stays
of some isolated elegy
escaped for mistake
from the reasonable comical actor.
They cut off the legs to the runners
they clouded the thinking heads
they sewed pride and resentment
on the mouth laughing at the circus.
Now it is too late
and the guilty are no more findable.
European prison as castle
baby on the carriage that plays
poodle with the keyholes to the bottom
student that closes the doors
To every elective affinity.
Hospital of the incurable
of you remains a tourist postcard
with the starry little flag
wet by the hurricane Silenus.
My small river stretches
satisfied by rains acidule
and it cherishes above the ruins
Of large generational projects.
Mongolians and Tartari like friends
to learn the all-in wrestling
a slab never finished
the hurdy-gurdy playing Internazionale
in the middle of the kingdom of the Czar
from which I escaped away
light years burnt, enchanted
to reach a special place
with the light touch of the fingers.
Growing I crossed by the way
only whiners and jinxes
and now I should go next
to a threadbare prophet
with many women and hundred sons
with the ears allergic
to the sound of an ocarina?
Let him break in his cave!
I stay along the small river
Waiting for every day with trust.
I pierce the daytime moon
confused in the middle of the sky
while a lot of animals leave
to far lands, or they go in lethargy.
Like haughty dancer
waiting for a hiring
after abounding exercise.
With the red shoulder-bag
I train myself to caresses lost
to three bodies that danced together
in a vague sense of the nothing
in a discreet and laughing sabotage
of every emotional trap
helped by the upset years
by a rebellion of the harmony
against every other power
not granted by lenient nature
but by the bites of the human dogs.
Squeaking goes the streetcar of the sighs
that glistens, flying to San Francisco
on platforms of sooty brooms
and of whistles, in the impalpable air
above the wide bay of the future.
With the music you enter clandestine
singing the song of the loafer
in the world that you do not recognize anymore.
You question the invisible divinities
buried forever in these places
to know where you find yourself.
Without jokes to laugh
without water, nor light
the thieves steal the last televisions
to retail them to who never saw them.
This is a decrepit place
of delicate pale ladies
kidnapped with heads and hands cut.
Enter with the right melody
to the nursery of the infants prodigy
And teach them how to run away.
They will consider you a little stupid
and they will nail you in the desert.
do you fear, woman lost there around
blinded by space brightness?
It is a wrong way
To hear the final version of the chorus.
The thought hurts me.
I have a virus that eats me up
and makes me write ravenous
to dominate the desire to be happy.
Although the almanacs of the nobility
packed of crazy and perverted
ugly at sight, awful in the smell.
I monitor an apparent calm
and I develop beneficent activities
despite the boiling spirits.
I would be able to be a vampire
or other mutant of the earth
but I am only a priest
of my temple always closed
violet and perfumed
or white and healthful
according to the turn of the planets
near the mine one. A look tarnished
from the long day that ends
before closing myself into the prayer
and into the spiced desires.
Sometimes you meet me down on the street
and you do not know that I measure
every your movement, every step.
Like a shadow to the light of the sun.
If my homeland vanished suddenly
what would lack of the lamented matron?
A foot of hen for broth
fat with the off-white claws
recently painted by whim.
An enormous cackle bomb
evaporated from the soups of the Christmases
or shit with the eggs of Easter.
At the funeral of noon
they all would cry like fountains
for a hour of good neighborhoods.
Then they would return, blowing strong their noses
like a cantata as tenor
in the net for gnats
or small small fishes
etended along every boundary.
Thin net, intangible
done with eyes and lies
with massacres and unsolved suicides.
Net that does not give more access to anything of truth.
If it crumbles, oh, small hole!
Here, they jump all together
until the next net.
Even more thin.
12 dogs are born
in the ground. Attached for the tail
they suck blindly the thin bitch
lying at the sun half dead.
The dog-catcher didn't pass
but only beggars and loafers
who with their baskets ask for money
to let see the phenomenal childbirth.
The next day they vanished all
and there is no track of blood
of milk, of hairs and excrements.
They were born in a weird place
with the statue of someone burnt alive
and the steps of altri sentenced to death.
Will they take luck to who counted them?
Sight of 5 centuries ago
premonition of the incoming days.
I find myself in quarantine at the massive walls
like after a wave of plague
transported from the swift boron
very much before I expected.
It had shaken on the right and on the left
uncovering the arcades of the black moles
and the facades of painted cardboard
of the pretended lovers of the humanity.
I am surrounded by euphoric and depressed
who seem survivors of the divided Berlin.
Here lights and limelight, there pitch darkness.
The same apple divided in two. Half to devour
half to throw to the gees of the Capitol.
But in the dream I walk smiling
and I have a flag sewn in heart
not to show but to the stars
in the ether streaked by the close dawn.
The dreamlike verses disentangle themselves quickly
like colts stamping in track
and I never grasp them. Alas.
They come back happy to their natural kingdom
populated of refuses of the broad daylight
of things not necessary to survive
but delicate, or terrible for the human senses.
And them I fish out randomly on the road
when some event
turns to to the inhuman one, or breaks the balance
of the statue of stone, the Justice.
Three stars of happiness
Pastina, Calmina and Trielina
for the squarquoio European world.
The first one to honor its kitchen
the other one to make it find again its serenity
and the third one to preserve its ruins.
To resist with the cheek
to the massacres done at home.
For luck I still take offence of it
of the broken that I see around.
I try to dry tears
to repair as best I can
vices and fake spread virtues.
And near every my birthday
I could write for 72 hours
Staying fresh like a rose.
It drizzles on the platform of the Latins
on what remains between the felines
spotted, black and ancient egyptian
between the afternoon snacks left gulped down
above the pieces of the dusty bodies.
They sleep like a loir in lethargy.
Better, otherwise they would understand
that it has not been worth a lot
the daily trouble between himself and himself
before the death of the Magna Grecia.
Otherwise they would prefer having been
wicked mercenary warriors
at the service of the richest gods
or senseless fighting killer of lions
still pot-belly like a pacha
to gulp dates and honey
with the liquor of Mare Nostrum.
I
you had two passports
one rotten green, one marc color.
One to learn to be bootlicker
peeping Tom, envious, bilious
lazy and ignorant.
Another new one to be proud
indifferent and cowardly.
The first one to forget
the caves with the sheep
the black widows that yell
and then they prepare macaroni.
The second to cancel the little man with little moustaches
the whores leaned to any wall
pulled on in time of war.
They could detach biting the Cupolone
or to melt into scrap iron the Tower Eiffel
that noone would leave his own manias
like the one to hang up to the window
underpants pierced on the back
without rubber band to be on.
II
And if you want another passport
find the right word
and enter into the sea, in the sky
across the mountain in summer.
You will dance a species of trescone
you will ride like an Indian
and you will have your boat between the crocodiles.
Long broad daylight of air
and of you always ready for the game.
If you wonder what is the delight
so I will answer you everytime
you will consult me, pulling the pebbles
to the two elements of which you are made.
Seek a place that resembles you
and it will not matter your color
the habit-bound language, but the wind
that there like spora will settle you.
Still they fear my tongue Durlindana
the poor decorum that surrounds me
the being common out of the ordinary.
It is affectionate dedication obtorto collo
in the beginning of 47° turn around the world
for you troublesome humanoid
that I carry myself behind from the cradle.
That many times bothers really
and I would exchange you with amazing creature
to make my head spin to the favorite actors.
With curious unbroken enthusiasm
to the Hebraic right profile
and to the nordic accident.
Today the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier
is full cemetery of hooks
megaphones break through of other times.
Like if the peace were not a gift
universal, common, natural
and not invention of some rag-and-bone man.
Like if I not every morning got up me
in the full atmosphere of warlikeness
of the flags of ancient torturers.
And passing for Campo de' Fiori
he should not avoid with extreme skill
the pull crossed of some snipers pacifists
even if I do not put on dressed of high fashion
camouflaged to the fire of the machine guns.
And I only look the eyes of the dogs
That tell what is what on their owners.
Today it will march still for Rome
the Company of the Good Death
while I see, drowned to Tiber,
the holy-water font of an old church.
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