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» Preludes to Lutin
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The laugh of the moon
It's two of night and two white gulls fly between the rosy clouds with the imminent rain.
I announce to you that I will reign above the last fragments of beauty of the planet. We cannot know if at the end it will stay only the beauty.
I am the moon. I look at you from up here while you agitate to live yourselves, humen. I want to explain some age-old misunderstandings and fake opinions that you have over myself to squander them. It is not true that I am sad. If you observed me more attentive when I am full, doing not superimpose your bag of sadnesses to the mine I turn, you could note that the folds darken form on the mine masks now pale, now lit, a rather cheerful expression. I give again, wringing slightly the eye, winking, accomplice far away of your earthly nights.
I amuse myself when hidden under a thick blanket of clouds someone among you seeks me in vain before it rain on the world.
I do not feel myself ever turned to thin scythe like you see reduced me from the whole one. I am always equal inside. Are you that every so often mistake one thing for another.
Let's stop also with this stupid hypothesis on my alleged impossible love with the sun or that more reasonable for affinity with the planet of the rings. I am for inclination a lonely one that love to imagine the stories, an onanist like you define who makes love with himself. If I grant myself an embrace to the century is in order to do not forget me that feeling so human. And I hide carefully those handfuls of minutes between the stars more strangers, in order to noone can find the track in the whole solar system.
If it was agreed me from mother nature, I would want that my paleness became fatally horrifying to illuminate the rooms of the powerful jailers. I would create frightening games of shadow from that were able to materialize itself chinese phantoms with tongue and crest of dragon with yellow eyes without pupils.
I would upset the human, since if the purpose is the happiness and to be happy often is necessary to be little humen, then is mark that be urgent a new balance not more human, I play harmonious onwards and in down for the staircases of the living. So the plants enjoy, listening to the 'Pater Noster' of Liszt or 'The Lame Devil' of Haydn and grow under my brightness.
Bafometto
In an elegant arcade of Rome there is a curious bookstore that exhibits different every day objects to attract attenction of the passerby. They could admire there time after time small statue with the head very big, work tools for the masonry and some tools of precision ancient parchments written by large letters in mysterious languages, books that stay on the shelves, because the proprietor refused to sell them.
In the night dark outlines can be noted agitating themselves near the globe of wood, large like a human being.
And a weirder night of the others, with a wretched sickle of moon in the sky, two attractive little girls stop there in front to eye within the glass tarnished of the bookstore already closed.
They seemed to find each other after much time, like if some circumstance of the life had them lieutenants separated to long. One of them was dressed like arrived for charm from the past century. She had a hat in rather ridiculous head, but the face with dynamic outlines, modern.
The other was just a little countrywoman with something of savage in the hair disheveled and in the eyes of a menacing innocence.
"It is now of to end it, dear Amy. It is no more bearable that they don't allw us to stay within our books only because we are no more to someone's taste. It is necessary to get ready a plan before they cancel us from ours adored pages".
The other, more calm answered, shaking the head. "You are right, dear Fadette. And what would we go to do in the world? I have the vague impression that if does not help us directly the spirit of miss Sand or of my dear mister Dickens, here they throw us really in the middle to a road".
Fadette had a furious air like in the pages of the book for children in which had lived taken pleasure until that moment.
"I will not change certainly my garment to follow the current times". And dark outlines and ignes fatui accompanied her words.
Fadette trembled how had had to the unexpected one a big cold.
"I know them well, they are the animals of the ugly times. Of you, poor Amy, we say that you are tedious, charmed by the soldiers. And of myself that I am an uncouth one who does not find the road of the town. In what devilment ever are arrived?"
In the window they opened themselves how marched from the wind the wasted pages of two little books. And Fadette, closed there outside wanted to hit in the darkness her page, the one with the figure being lacking.
Amy inserted her in all hustle, the one with the boat above the waters of the Thames, greeting with separation from treacherous daughter of Albione the girlfriend of three of night.
The Liescii
Tonight some travellers of the Great Bear recovered the restive of an ancient manuscript of the humen, dating back 2998, rather damaged, faded from the bizarre winds of Saturn.
In the middle there it is an enormous black hole and what can be hardly deciphered is of just two fragments.
Its name is "LIESCII". Perhaps it looks after the course of some songs of the north even more ancient that recounted mythological enterprises of the glacial peoples of whom we had not more news from the times of the coming down of the white bears towards the continent of the south. A kind of collective suicide, surrounded by the thickest mystery.
One of the ours traveling scientists also hypothesized that could be been about one of the last human examples of author, survivor to the total passing away of personality, happened at back of the period in matter.
Here is the short readable text.
First fragment. "Who am I to say only pieces of foolishness? I present myself, I am Liescii who overturns the clumps and makes you to walk to any direction without advancing of a foot. I live within the land and I go out visible to the dogs without goal and without owner. I am a manufacturer of enclosures that you, doing not be able to distinguish you will be unaware of, wandering with a lovely feeling of freedom.
You have some coin in pocket? You have a small mania, drink and lose your mind? My power of enclosing arrives until the black holes, to the game of the dice, to the maze. I don't blackmail and don't threaten, but do not exchange the so theatrical manner of expressing myself as a some human shape. I am a bizarre will of existence, an illusion, a breath of southwest wind on the foots in shore to the waves navies, a vanity that pretends to forward the things to make them return always in the beginning.
Sometimes I disguise myself like a wet umbrella and I sail fluctuating between the crowd. In a certain sense I protect, but I do not know well from what. Sometimes they are a bundle of tarot from that go out only three cards, the crazy man, the hung up, the bagatto.
I am Liescii, I live an invisible clump than you will never find. You will walk, believing to go towards the Mediterranean and will be above useless thoughts, returning to the yellow of the grain and to the green of the grass. Noone will remember you.
A time I played with a pinball full of satellites to hit to obtain the utmost of the score.
I introduced every time a secret code. Melograna, melocchia. ... We met ourselves above the sad satellite. Where do you go? I go for a walk. I instead above the rocking chair to strips, on the terrace, do you come?"
Second fragment. "You are ugly like a toad, saving the soul!" cries the woman that sells the mushrooms inside a basket of broom at the angle of the covered market, the one where on Friday they unload the cod that stinks like the sardines. It is necessary it pay attention to say badly of the toads, because they are touchy and if you meet one of them with the swollen back squirts you the venom and blinds you. This is everything that I knew on the toads until the past summer. I was alone in the night under thirty degrees, oppressed from a sky red for the too much heat. When the shouting of the humen swarmed I went into the garden to seek a little relief and to give water to the roses, to the hydrangeas. At a certain point I pushed the watering can and I did not hear the land, but something of softer.
It was he, the legendary big toad of the dry torrent that gently asked to me to wet its back.
The night after returned with all the family and continued to do this for all the summer, between the cricketing, the bats quivering, the thirsty little snails.
Without any effort the humen were indifferent to me like if were entering into a beneficent interregnum.
"If they realize that I speak with you, dear my toad, I am sold!"
Sometimes the solitude does ugly jokes and so I seemed to hear a shrill voice. "My name is Cagliostro and I was a nice mason of times distant. I am now a toad without more illusions, but call me Mr. Count, please."
I was well to the shelter from the world. "Pack your suitcases, go to the crossing of the winds in the crowds of a line of houses with a turret. There you will find a phantom and perhaps also a living man", said to me the one.
Izba
There will be a place without the human being. I should find it, I should find an uninhibited izba. The thought is stopped since some days on this apocalyptic evocative hypothesis, so much that I was not able to read, to write.
I started suddenly without suitcases to the new world, in search for my inhabited place on this rusty planet and without rings of light.
During several months I moved myself day and night, without finding anything really different from what already seen. A morning I arrived to a weird boundary with some little men that played a very ridiculous kind of hymn, like to the ancient fairs of country, beating to shift now the hands now the foots deafeningly.
"What country is this?", I asked with participating and amused tone. "What country is, it is not seen? It is the place of the evanescences, well-known to distribute generously land and sky, known as do not cost anything", answered me the player of trombone with the voice harmonized to its tool. "And what is precious in this place?", I asked aroused suspicion in and timid.
"The shit", I answered without hesitating the player of bass-drum, ruddy and deafening precisely like its tool.
"It is the opposite one of the world that I leave me to the shoulders", I thought reassured.
"Finally I found a place that is right for me, where I will begin a new life, made of pleasant things and stop".
I pondered at great length between myself: "I will neither have anymore to count the money, nor to give their importance to defend me from the vulgarity of the man. I will be able to write and to think freely without risking the prison or the mental hospital. I will converse to the sunset with the birds before they return to their nests, waiting for that the black moon turn into little by little white moon or visible."
I was happy. That night I dreamt immense fields of grass soft and perfumed, some animal, a cow, a raven, a firefly, no much other.
The human density was laughable and constituted the most by dead shadows of artists and gypsy children with yellow eyes. In the successive days I decided to keep a species of diary, also because due to the uniformity of landscape and of the spring climate I was dozing off, losing the knowledge of the time.
I had not the clock with me, remained hung up to a nail at the wall of my ancient residence.
I did not possess a compass, I advanced random, following the instincts. The animals were not sociable in that land. They stoled the food and escaped swiftly.
I became friend of a shrimp that tamed the tortoises and was amused to order whole armies of them, that he started to march like authentic military parades.
The shrimp was it a general in pension of an unknown region of the old Russia who was bothered a lot after the last war of boundary, fought in the regions of the north. We spoke together of the last world conflicts and I had the net feeling that the general wanted to sell itself for what he was not. A pacifist concealing an incredible nostalgia of the arms.
In a day equal to the others, the small belligerent collapsed to the floor dead dried up in front of me and his fond tortoises, marking with the indicator to continue, but where to?
The tortoises escaped slowly in all directions and I stayed again alone.
I did not hear anymore the cheerful light musics of the band of country and I realized I ventured a lot beyond in the new world. I waited with trust for some surprise.
I glimpsed a dark woman escaping towards the horizon, like flying. I had an indecipherable start of fear like I had seen a body moving itself suddenly.
The animals around started to die together with the vegetation until there was only the desert.
I wanted to live withdrawn, dreaming myself same. Instead I had arrived to the fairy house with the roof break through and It rained since little time.
I felt myself badly and a pale lady still young something sang to me like to cherish me.
Number
My speciality is the one to mark the curious rhythms that are born every day around me and sometimes do not stop not even of night. I listen to everything. Bells, intercoms, alarm-clocks, call on the telephone, tubes that lose water.
Numbers that uperimpose, unexpected noises of cellophane, paper, yells of humen gotten angry, crying of children and women exhausted, shouts of the wind that oppresses the weaker plants.
When listening to the radio or looking at a television program, I not mark the meaning of the speech, but the rhythm of the words, the pauses of the silence, the resonant and visual holes that sometimes rise for mistake and are the illusion of the silence, since behind there is an enormous upset noise.
I am a type that, to go crazy almost should faint. Realize that I am a practical man, a mathematician in perpetual calculation.
I do not succeed easily to go out from the cobweb of the noises across which I vivisect every hour, every action to finish into my organized and predictable day.
Who wants to daydream should organize himself in the special minimum. Do not have any illusions on the imaginations that I have for half an hour already put in account. I accumulated some click due to the calculations that jump and do not return, to setbacks. When something disturbs the perfect order of my facts mine, frenetically I should rebuild it from beginning, do you understand?
It is necessary to calculate well what counts for the survival, to stick itself to certain numbers, to the calibrated codes, against the entropy that floods furtive.
I note so the days. An impression arrives at the mind, I mark what clear experienced like it should escape with breathe or someone arrived to play a devastating bell of alarm.
The fact is that my life is full of unexpected rings that destroy happy torpors. Sounds of every species, unusual and unpredictable calls.
I learned to link the ring of some telephone or of the intercom to certain fixed tasks, so I bother to answer only if I have desire, because in the middle of so many resonant stimuli the ones useful are little, two or three and the rest useless, tedious, fruitless.
I adore the sounds and the numbers that serve to some thing, those that command in their purity and are slow if the human knows to take them for the right side, but become blundered, slippery like eels, uncatchable, unattainable in the anguish of a last call.
My name is Number, I am Number.
Card
The number four went out. It is dangerous.
If the gambler wants to be lucky and to have a possibility to win he has to ask still of to play. The entry lasted by now since around twenty hours continuously and all of the gamblers were distorted, defeated from the fatigue. The half of them wanted to come back home, in family and the other half to shut away themselves inyo a secure hole to sleep until the next entry. Only a gambler seemed to want to remain there for always, until the end of his days.
He lost continuously and he didn't seem to be aman lucky in love, anything. He seemed one who was found there after failing the enlistment in the foreign legion, because too hopeless, unable to vent with an arm in war against the enemy.
Before entering to the casino they questioned him so long on his financial conditions, fearing that in large case of loss it could not in any way provide to bind the debt or could kill himself suddenly.
"I should find the way to rub them all", thought by himself the lonely gambler, "and I should do it before they claim the compensation for my losses."
"Misters," he took breath, "is not like you think. I have an unhealthy appearance because I had many adventures and my existence was anything but monotonous, full of meetings, of loves and of bets winning. I turned around the world. In the out-of-the-way places where they did not know the cards I played free with the only purpose to learn to those poor men the thin pleasure of the hazard.
I felt myself well when in the night I made long square or circular solitaires, trying to close until the last card without moreover to succeed in it.
I was exhausted by myself same, by the past, by what I had been and I did not find myself but into clips like an obvious advertising written badly during years without intelligent conversations and meetings exciting.
I came to nothing like a top moved from a hand bruised. I started again loaded always with my favorite bundle of cards, putting in top a ten and in fund a nine one, waiting for being in the middle the winning numbers.
It was a pleasant habit that made blend me continuously in the search for new solutions of game.
Do you want that I continue still in my story or will we play the game?"
At this point the half-empty room renewals a little vitality and the customers awakened themselves as for an enchantment.
They started again to play a weird entry without anyone risked ecessively, except for that ours. It is seen clear his iron will to ruin himself at any cost.
They went ahead so for a couple of hours with a fifty of blows of stage that made rise to someone the weird doubt of a large bluff aside that kind of failure, since he always escaped by a hair's breadth.
And however our gambler was motionless on a precipice with a foot forward and the other one behind.
The last braves defiladed, putting an end to the endless night. The gambler took again to make his solitaire in the awaited to ruin himself totally at the next occasion.
Into the room entered the women of the cleanliness, singing. They did signs each other how to mock that poor fellow that thought too drunk to lift from the game table and go away like all the others.
The gambler asked for smoke to a female who was stinking the room of smoke and sweat for an asmatic overripe body. He attended a couple of cigarettes, promising to go away suddenly, cause the game of the night was ended and would be taken again only the next night. He went fishing and then started caracoling towards the mild and smutty dawn, damp and invisible. The sweepers cleaned the world in a rejoice of jests and stornellos.
4 obituaries
I
He slept sometimes, when stopped beating on the keys of the computer or on the screen began confusing the images for too much fatigue.
Its work was of to create new ways to work for the others. Luckily he was never bothered. He smoked, sometimes cleared his throath, coughed, but he didn't notice.
Since childhood he was thin and dark, a little sad he seemed, but he didn't notice not even of that, so taken as he was around plastic manufactures, puzzles, arithmetical numbers.
He wanted to study physical, then he studied so deeply the Greek philosophy that his books were underlined with plus tints with summaries and side notes until that you could not read anything.
But he remembered every word.
He experienced to stay in his family, he tried to have a his own family. Then worked enough, thinking he was not so much able for that kind of situations. Observed the human beings with fun, except when they did not work well and wasted their life in banal things and without any sense. I cannot claim that he had precise purposes, but I am sure that he followed a long wave, ambitions, counting only on the work that he made the previous day and the one after and after again.
He was greedy, adored eating well, he drank little. He had short foots compared to the considerable height, with long and yellowish nails that he seldom cut.
He didn't treat himself a lot, but the eyes were always lively like those of the child he had been. The hands were small like the foots.
II
She was born with a maggot in her head. She continuously needed to embellish and to turn epic every futile event. She had lovers more or except for imaginary, someone true, for what can be worth in an entirely useless life like the one of the rose and of the butterfly.
She spent a childhood enchanted, an extreme adolescence and then nothing more.
She invented everyday perfect suppositions to return on her actual steps and to leave out the rest of the rotating world. There is not a definition for a being like this, not even in occasion of her obituary. A gipsy?
Perhaps it can be said that recently she ripped myriads of letters and postcards, simply keeping three whole boxes. Frivolous and insignificant writings, from Mexico, from Brazil, from Japan and from any part of Europe.
III
He was a man that resembled to a pigeon.
He advanced stiff like he danced tango, still little with a beard long enough giving him something wiseness.
But the eyes were like crazy and loved incredible stories.
He made everything to gain a woman, grazing sometimes grotesque manners. He had any kind of them and of each one remembered something.
He could not stand of being rejected, left from a woman he had possessed physically. A tragedy without end did of it, a terrible personal affront from which he did not know how to free himself.
Like if Dongiovanni did feel sadness if the strip of the conquests were reduced.
IV
The monster became good. After a whole existence devoted to the infringement at any cost, strictly perpetrated from day to evening, closed into his dark and wet rooms, he became good, sentimental, respectful of laws and prohibitions, like he should remedy to the unhealthy time.
He lived the last days as compassionate spirit, helping the little old ladies to cross the road.
In his defence we can say that he was never caught while rent an his victim.
Stars
They were simply always attractive even if did not fall anymore, the less when the humen waited for it, like in the warm nights of San Lorenzo and of Santa Chiara of Assisi. Everybody were with nose upwards, climbed on the hills, armed of covers and binoculars. But nothing appeared on the round black but very small fires set randomly more downstream by drunk peasants.
Where did the stars go to end? Neither the large comet of the prophets, nor the planet Venus so often exchanged for a gross adamantine star, so is bright to the sight. We are in search for the common stars, those little points sometimes white sometimes yellow other times times reddish that make happy the children, the lovers, the dreamers, the lonely men and the moon always mute and fixed too much in the sky. The shinings above the snow-covered mountain that announce sugar-loaf days. The sparkles on the sea that kiss the wave curled and drive the sailors from a port to another of the world. The good star, the one that every being invoke, since a lot of things are due to the good or bad chance and the good star protects against the fury of opposite events, reconciling who is sad with his hostile untruths.
Who never spoke them or consulted the stars is a poor wretch, because has lost a sacred dimension. I decided to interrupt any activity and though at least for a little and to put myself under a tree waiting for the stars appear again.
Where did they vanish? There are still myriads of them in some piece of firmament above the land. I want to go to seek the stars with one of those bags where are quite put back the potatoes. I want to capture them only for me. And if they are too large I will peel them a bit, because they the same shine.
I will never sell to anyone and at not any price the stars that I will find. I will enjoy myself them as old person in the middle of a field, throwing them in the air in handfuls because so I will die like I was born.
Here i am at the end with the full bags of stars. I arrived here, where I do not know anyone and the ones I knew I forgot on the way.
I am more and more alone, I organize in the smallest details my day with the fear not to arrive to the end before or after. I do not know what traveled twisted have driven me to this little place attended, along an avenue of very old magnolias, with benches of wood almost all broken.
Who passes distracted does not notice my bags leaned the one on the other one, bound with the flakes of a gift, but I fear equally the thieves.
It is all what I own of precious. If robbed me nothing would remain to me.
Luck wants that noone know. I can die calm.
Movement
I had a dream rather complicated A series of situations extremely comic likely interrupted from a corporal need splitted my sides with laughters. I continued to repeat to myself, "you bushels sleeping, but when you will wake up, you will remember everything". And I continued to note every detail to be able from awake to split my sides with laughters. Nothing. When the body lifted itself, pluff, nothing. I have still the smiling mouth.
I do not know where I find myself. It is the pure truth.
My country, my house I am elsewhere towards a thick forest that suddenly ends into immense expanses of grass and flowers. I remember a bucholic sound that becomes metallic and changes stamp and color.
And in what place I am arrived now? This is seriously complicated. Do you want to see that something, someone it moved me while I fiddled myself at the mirror?
I should find the way to go out of here. Perhaps returning to sleep. I experienced and it does not work. I begin to be hungry and thirsty.
They want me to die for exhaustion, but they made wrong calculations. Now I go out and I go to see outside. Then I will look in these empty rooms.
Here noone is amused. The persons are at the window to look at you without speaking. Then they go out and they pretend not to see you, breathless running to the supermarket. There they quarrel to arrive first to pay.
Someone dressed for party goes for a walk with the dog and speaks alone or licks an ice cream and pretends to speak with a dog or chatters to an invisible thread.
Sure they work the indispensable minimum to be able again to run to the window to spy on, then to run to quarrel to pay the supermarket and therefore to run to pretend to speak with dog or without. Everyone lost his bearings fixed in some part of the skull.
Not cause the people of my country was better, rather.
There every person believed to know all of the life and said it to you every holy day and, if they did not repeat it more times they felt bad.
Instead of loving you they got wrong and took to cast you the evil eye. Even there noone worked willingly, but at least they spoke, they spoke and they spoke each other to kill the time. Two populations, a one race. After all I didn't suffer any serious wrong finding myself mysteriously here without remembering anything of the reason why and how I am here.
I return to the empty rooms and test the wall with the fists. There it is a rather odd television, a vocabulary of unknown languages that talk about a comical place, swift, with the horses and the missiles.
The persons seem of excellent mood and seen from distant seem untiring workers.
Across films and telefilms I study other laws, assassinations, thieves and varied manners to hold hard in extreme cases. I am curious. If I fall asleep again and dream still instead of returning back I go to this place. Who knows, I try to leave myself to go.
Three dead
The first one frightened me, because I did not see him dead, but while was dying with the sons around to yell than was dead.
But he with a thread of voice in the room in half-light said no, vomiting blood in streams. The room was already an enormous dark coffin from what escaping like wind, pretending of nothing.
But when they told me that he was dead like if it was the larger tragedy of the world I got frightened, because not having seen him quite dead for me he was alive bloodless and would have returned when he wanted among us from an unknown and horrible place.
That night I ask my mother to sleep as guard on the carpet to the foots of my crib, because hindered to the no-dead one to come into my room.
The next day they wretched me socks and dark dressed for the funeral. And I was pleased gave myself a lot of airs, because I felt myself older.
Until that moment never I have been allowed to wear veiled socks and the black t-shirt supporter it made to me a breast that still I had not.
The second dead I kissed him on the hairy cheek. They had no time to shave him.
He had the head bound by a handkerchief, because the blood was gone out from the ears.
He was icily like a refrigerator, but damp everywhere of sweat for the big toil of dying.
The contact of a moment dragged me into a profound whirl, in the total absence, in the nothing. I was alive.
That feeling of capture towards the low a time explained me for all where goes to end everyone. I want to say where surely goes to end the body and what we can see.
The third dead one I had visited him before the death, when with infinite patience supported the pain in a mixed lane of hospital with the television to all volume for an entry of soccer, while so many did the fan to roars and perjuries.
I remember that to isolate him compassionately from the living persons I told him, "It is hard", reporting me naturally to the journey that was finishing in such conditions, without a minimum of silence, of solitude to remember.
He looked at me with astonished air like he had not it understood what I wanted to say, but he agreed.
I believe it did not want to die, that he waited for a miracle to be another little in this loathing of world.
As dead he was peaceful and satisfied like a puppet that sleeps. The widow yelled like a possessed and to make her be quiet, I that knowed her just a little settled my hand on her head, thinking that anyways we should die in a manner or in another one. And what it will be ever.
Déja vu
There was an enlightened room, distant from my present days, illuminated of red. And I danced a country song, replaced that disk that jumped above an old phonograph, jumped like a pancake put there to fry. And I turned until to feel turn myself the head, until to be at the point of to faint. Then I stretched out myself above a worn sofa also it, red of those that they put to furnish themselves the houses of country in order to do not throw them definitively.
It was riddled here and there, but it seemed to me attractive, in the middle of a room that I considered the mine underground personnel, because I took refuge there from the high floors where there was in course a party continued with a lot of persons and foods, drinks, joints, so much other, in a tourbillon of conversations on thing we would have done after in the years, when we would become in some manner older we too. I had a temporal limit of forbearance for those complains in which everyone recite the part that more agrees in the moment, for pride, ambition, revenge, desire of oppression more or less contained. And that was the true amusement.
Then I brought with me something to eat or to drink and I came down under there where usually, I do not know why, they did never go even the proprietors of the villa. And yet that basement had some small windows that gave directly on the forest. And a door, that of Chicken, that lead always hidden to the garden or rather, in the most attractive point where was the gazebo, mysterious and attended from the elfs place that make enchanted and kissing the persons.
But my shelter anti-noise, soundproofed, anti-chat was more mysterious of the gazebo that everyone saw, but pretended of not to see for hypocrisy, because it was not good to report on what happened in there.
Underground entered after me a special person, good, strange, sweet, subjected, green, attractive or only adolescent like me, with the eyes of the noble polar husky. Compliant there, elsewhere ruthless. And he went out immediately after.
Human race
You they learn of it of things in the arc of a sun and of a moon.
Passing from the vague dream of a hypothetical past of whom I am the only trustee and witness and not very reliable and the less verifiable to these hours in series, looked at, comfortably sat at a theater of appearances, prompters, employees to the maintenance and cleanliness of the place. I see the remainders of every meal of the day before, while someone eats again still and throws the remainders.
The merchants of enclosed shops and stalls in the open one open, the banker perfume themselves and the thieves stink more than before and the gypsy transvestites as tourists to slip off better the purses and anything else.
The poodles awake themselves and go to occupy diligently the habitual places for ask the charity and to have company without being noted too much.
Pass the controllers of the law and the ambulances for who already is bad early in the morning.
It is the season without schools. Everybody go to the beach, except who is in prison or at work.
Inside the train they doze still nuns, women of the cleanliness, employed, housewives with dog, sons and other animality left in a room to wait for the expenditure, before the television set or at the window.
The old men wander already early in the morning with the astonished air of who is tired, but has fear of the death.
Then they try to start talking with someone or to be simply in the neighborhood of the living.
So if the sudden end arrives they are not alone and they think about it more less.
The powerful men show themselves a little, because they should do so their part. If just you see someone, compelled from banal duties between their fellows, he it is put in tail to the car, to the angle hidden of the road, far away from the traffic light and almost does not breathe. But all they seem to scrutinize it. They would strip him of those garments and of every object that it has on, they would eat it without to put cooking him like did with flavor the ancestors.
In the hospitals someone waits to go out, someone ends closed in the chapel of the first floor.
After the peaceful hours of the time to get up, begins the big noisy race and all begin to argue, to yell, to quarrel outcome towards the time in which it is begun to eat.
Then it begins again with plus energy than before, until the darkness, and naturally is used to eat again here and there. Who has the vices displays of them spaciously until when, or it is rested again, or it is amused again in some way. After it is slept to begin again from the beginning. Naturally who it is awakened, lifts himself still. Someone does not do it anymore.
And when I was at the sea, I saw enormous and nude bodies, with bellies shambling about like long earrings. Gelatinous bottoms and bosoms in putrefaction that sank on the sand. But all they laughed, played and fished in the water, with large roar of wave.
They were the pleasants without bombs, without accidents, without murders, suicides, without catechisms and dying next. At least in the moment that I observed them.
And the sea peeled the watery eyes, moved and stinking of fish at every August that is respected, on those old fat and thin bodies, wrinkled like trunks or smooth, oily, vegetables with the unmistakable fragrant stench.
Above sweaty bath suits, confused with anxiety above the cribs, under umbrellas pierced, inside wooden shelters with dishes, glasses above the bidet, great panties extended to drain with the pasta. And the sea observed all attentive, arching the wavy eyebrows. Improbable virgins, mandrills of zones suburban, old big lesbians rejected from poor males irritated, adolescents of the former communist countries deported to these new concentration camps, to clean the litter of the despaired that take the summer heat like a mission, pretending to amuse themselves like crazy to fry like scrambled, scorched eggs.
And while the neighbors break for the envy, ambulances to arrive in flocks to lend the first aid. Someone cracks under the sun, while he runs crazy and tanned. The adolescents of the east seek for any work for the winter.
Towards the river
Since several days I escape everywhere, turning somersaults in order to have nothing to do with myself.
I changed the memories, the handwriting a bit, the bicycle, but the music is always the same. Hardly I remember that day in which I escaped from home with the red and rather old bike, my small pocket recorder with "Born in the USA", and a can of beer.
And since I should say goodbye to the life lived outcome there, I went to the cemetery of country where are no more my paternal grandfathers, but they would have wanted to stay there, because as living persons they had a farm with the fields actual next to the dead. Of course the cemetery of town where they put them now.
And then, cycling like a crazy, I went down until the farm of the maternal grandfathers, also dead since a little time.
A necessary ceremony seemed to me, the one to ask the blessing before leaving forever their land.
And I spoke a long time, asking so many things, their vital force, the courage, the patience, features that I have not in plenty.
After drunk my beer I took again cycling, but I took aim cross to leave, since the chain jammed like it had been pushed to the ground land by strong hands.
I ripped my jeans and the hind wheel did not turn anymore. I was alone in open country. Noone passed and the first inhabited houses were very far. I don't remember more like, for miracle, I made the bicycle start again with hands black of grease and the heartbreak. I thought that it was an omen, a warning to stay always how I was then, there, between the snares of the metropolis. Not to be ashamed myself of my origin and of every magic of my poor childhood.
Therefore the monsters are always in trap at any latitudine and it's necessary to learn to defeat them.
I changed some cover, but today I remembered perfectly what I am, being able to brag myself a little. I am always the same, the music is that, same spirit, same enthusiasm, action and ingenuousness.
As a coward I ran to escape the time that is passed the same, extremely not giving a damn of me.
I didn't shrew I was so old at to the registry.
And I remember that while I came down the evening and I put right the bicycle, I thought that at all I did not belong to anything and anyone, not even to those clumps that gave me a little fear, invoked in their dark consistency.
Mendicants of Vatican
(and of Trevi-Campo Marzio, and other places in center of Rome).The granny Russian has a skirt lilac and a brown coat in every season of the year, big boots and colorless handkerchief in head. It is unimaginable that it is been young in a distant day of the life its. There it is the little man with an alone leg that flees swift to ask its charity. He flees also with the forty degrees, while the other with two legs they go slow plan. It goes with the red traffic light, skipping like a kangaroo that seeks food.
The last poodles arrived I am really repulsive. To look at the some sorrows rib on the left or to the right under the chest, liver, spleen, something else. God, how many I am in Rome!
I know alone those of Courses that expand themselves to shift around the monuments, to the churches, in the squares more notes of the center.
The gypsy enchanted, the child of seventy years with the braids, the holy one undermines that performs the rosary, what stinks more of a filthy lavatory for hundred years, the subjects of the queen to the Pantheon, the black one and the arsonist to the Tiber.
The little man who spits, what drags a crucified one from two to three, the Road of setbacks of gamblers of the Settlement, the German that writes of philosophy in square of the Vatican, the nude leper that itself show until the belt, and centuries back would have put them some cowbells to the neck to warn the passerby of its presence.
There n' is an everything pockmarked that could not have removed the pieces of material from the body, so to be able to avoid every contact.
There it is the Indian with the turban to whose left the snake in the yielded, the clown with the barrow parked to the bellies of the monnezza, the centaur with the tropical parrot, the posteggiatore without teeth.
And there I am of it other in such attitudes than is not possible to look at more of an instant for ancient in agreement modesty.
My war
I Walked on the beach and suddenly I saw at the horizon white signals of smoke.
I thought "we Hope that it didn't happen anything". And still a little slackened by the sun "The beauty of the nature is more strong than any horror".
An exact month after.
Two planes that went to opposite directions traced white lines in front of me. I removed myself from the uproar, I went towards the water and I stretched the arms how to finish a magical ceremony. I embraced the ocean that was not. In the city they were celebrating the High Mass to the memory. That afternoon there was still an attractive sun more summer than autumnal, a sun that calm that makes foolish like the small stupid grandmother Europe.
I say always that the monsters exist, rather. Come back to the stories, to the wisdom of the world.
Bum. My people was hit by the monsters.
Ancient tragedy. Will return Morgana and Merlin will systemize everything.
I exist thanks to the people of my readers and to them I belong, even if was born and grown elsewhere.
You are my people. The artist loves your, my reading public, I love you.
The war of the pigeons
Francesco looked at from the top the yards around the Vatican where called him his beloved birds to tell them the last war that the men fought between of them because of the poor pigeons of the capital.
And the holy man improvised one of his usual lectures to the birds, just to teach them to survive the malicious slyness of the humen.
The pigeons were a lot patient, but there were some young sparrows gotten angry seriously that did not stop twittering.
"You must be itching when they open the shutters and yell, when they let the cat or the dog go out. If they clean the pots and sprinkle of poisonous substances the yard, to keep you far.
Keep yourselves quiet for a little, cause there will be always your benefactors. Someone sincere and someone who spites to the neighbor will pull you the crumbs of their aboundant meals. Stay next to the steaming kitchens. Kiss each other and multiply, even if this will not satisfy the competent authorities."
The pigeons did not understand alot, but flew above a full roof of human litter, where a their friend threw the good bread only for affection, after than he was not able more to throw it in yard.
And also up there they would not have wanted, but the roof such was demoted by the human filth that more yhan yelling and chasing for a moment the pigeons they could not do.
It is known that the true love finds always big obstacles in this world.
There was still the moon in sky. Was born another day of hard cohabitation with the human wild beast.
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