Sopravvivenza
E'
triste
pensare
alla
sopravvivenza
della
dea
mediocrità,
espressione
contusa
di
botte
tra
ubriachi,
risse
tra
poveracci
e
quell'osso
rosicchiato
non
sfama
l'ambizione
di
troppi
cani
(sciolti
o
organizzati
che
siano.)
E'
bello
lasciarsi
guidare
dalla
penna.
Comunque
vada.
Comunque
finisca.
Torna
all'indice Autore
Among the silence of the olive
trees
Here, among
the silence of the olive trees,
the blue of the sky embraces the
valley
and a cowbell from goodness
knows where
breaks the monotony of the
rhythm
similar to the gait of that
shepherd
and to a dog that usually barks
to say that it exists and that
we exist
describing
the wisdom of nature
so good-natured in the humor
of one serene day
awaiting for that dark lightning
bolt
that will deface the landscape
in the new
order of the things
Torna
all'indice Autore
Floors
Thin layers
very thick
Virtual border lines
Soap bubbles
They swell and they burst
The waiter and the customer
The window washer and the
motorist
The doorman and the host
My mother and I
My father and
I
There is no feeling
Whichever way you move
up
down
going to different floors
The elevator moves very fast
But you are within the building
Only a bomb can destroy it
Let’s rebuild it
stronger
You’re welcome
Thanks!
Torna
all'indice Autore
Chaos
Thoughts are dripping
(now I must go to the barber’s)
On the pool of our lives
(tonight I’m going to take my
shirts to my mother’s)
a soft rain tickles the spot
(I’ve changed my washing
machine, a Rex for all seasons)
And the dilemma does not undo
the node
(I have a headache; I’m going to
take an aspirin)
I remember the sad passage of a
casket
(the child laughs behind the
ball)
The eagle from up high can not
make out the contours
(the glasses help me read)
And the meaning of all this
increases the Babylonian chaos
(the traffic never allows me to
be on time at the office)
Too many times I feel the
hypocrisy of the void
(the Heineken rolls along the
ships)
Damn the day you were born
(fight pit-bulls later defeated)
So sure they could stun us by
flaunting their breasts
(that’s how Roberta’s rear end
is immortalized in poetry)
And the brothel gets more and
more cashboxes and cashiers
(a discount is no longer
suitable)
The tight node asks the wise one
for an answer
(it’s so warm! the necktie
stifles the breath of who’s
trying to understand)
And to think that the breeze
whispers the pauses
(the dusty score sings another
tone)
A distracted master pulls the
strings of the puppet
(Pinocchio lies, aware of his
lies)
And love lives in the quandary
of insecurity
(loves me, loves me not, we
don’t love each other)
to then part with an au revoir
(another race, another turn
before shattering into pieces)
Finally all defeats are added
together
(one plus one could also equal
three)
The only victory is in the
common epilogue
(mathematics is not an opinion)
Torna
all'indice Autore
Serial 524
I am serial
524
Therefore I have a name
My name is Five hundred and
twenty four...
Then I am not a number!
I am so happy!
And to think that I was
convinced
I was a tax ID number
The number of an intercom
The hey you... from a passer by
a credit card
A password with
an expiration date
I am number 524
Therefore I have a name
My name is Five hundred and
twenty four......
Torna
all'indice Autore
A mouse
A mouse
A keyboard
A modem
A monitor
A floppy
A cd-rom
A workstation
I watch them
I use them
I abuse them
I feel for them... Right,
returning to origins... But...
where are the people?
Have they gotten lost between
the cables?
Swallowed by their silence?
Vile people, afraid to speak!
To face one another…
To communicate with their eyes
Fear of getting an answer from
another person,
Worms chewed by other people's
indifference
More and more alone you hit the
usual keys...
From...
To...
CC...
Subject...
Send….
Torna
all'indice Autore
My funeral
Everyone is there
They look at me
and I look at them
Some smile at the wooden coffin
in the shape of a guitar
That’s how I wanted it, in
authentic rosewood...
I observe them
They remember me
A few cry
I laugh
I make another round
They follow the coffin
A Dixie group
eases the boredom that pervades
me
I also had to pay those four
third-rate musicians
My Gibson rests in peace
At least it will not be devoured
by worms....
He was so huffy
So- so in bed
Lazy on the job
A failure as an artist
Such great friends...
And I laugh
Now I see them really measly
Pitiful
Future dust
With theirs
miserable mourning outfits
Some roll a joint
Others dance the wretched
swing....how clumsy they are!
But I had no time to choose
them!
And I continue to laugh
The draw was in my favor
Marylyn is waiting for me to go
out to dinner
Poor fools
You laugh
You defame and...
Hope for a good draw
Torna
all'indice Autore
Two Lines
It’s wonderful to write a few
lines
While waiting for the light to
change;
words take shape
Until the light changes again
then they are complete,
for the speech that I can’t
think of, but that stands for
itself
A staggering vision of me very
drunk, in my unfinished part
Torna
all'indice Autore
I write
I write for what I see
I write what I feel
Between puddles of a thousand
colors I smell the scent of
The halfhearted reason of
existing
I savor the rain- water
Drinking trough for dirty faces
lifted upwards in one last
question
Feeling one’s tears coming down
for one brief moment
Torna
all'indice Autore
Tomorrow
Tomorrow I’ll
be like today
The day after tomorrow I will
joke with
The past in this game
Of seasons that don’t change
Reclining my head on one side
I will watch sleep enveloping
me,
leading me into its time zone
There I will learn to watch my
Film backwards and the scissors
will cut
the absence of memory of dead
things and a needle
Will sew again the only living
frame
In the prenatal limbo of a cord
that ties me to the
concealed source
Torna
all'indice Autore
Didn’t you realize it?
The city is always lit up
Morpheus fears too much light
Nervous fingers pound the
keyboard
uneven strokes among the notes
of an already tired dawn
sleepless mannequins filled with
Prozac
Streams of slick guts dive into
the noise
As evening pervades the deep of
the night
of thoughts slipped between the
fingers
Didn’t you realize it?
Torna
all'indice Autore
The
void of time
The void of time
Surrounds lost time
and balding departs amidst hoary
heads
today pours out from then
no awareness of pauses
stuttering rhythms
asynchronous thoughts
(lives, deaths, hates and loves)
Pours the lymph in the
cauldron log
Truth lies underneath
For leaves fall
for rain soaks us
for we wander over
the deceitfulness of the surface
( debris of memory )
Tired, we look at the wave
that exhausted comes to shore
( mixed tears)
whispers its end
the fisherman is silent
( he lifts his wrinkled hand)
listening to the silence
(the answer is beyond that line)
the void of time
overcome by the sea
(a stronger life...)
surrounds lost time
and balding departs amidst hoary
heads
Torna
all'indice Autore
Night
In the retreat of the night, I
roam
Following the memory
That someone else
Loves
my Death
I give you
In the dreamy twilight
Torna
all'indice Autore
The end of the journey
Will the end of the journey have
the eyes of a tender lover
or the naiveté needed not to
live in order to live?
Or will it have the reflection
of a rainy day
that does not want to open up on
the horizon?
Awaited we will climb the steps
to the sky
and at the Temple’s doors
The Skull of naked truth will
say
The distracted unwary traveler
rests now at the end of his
journey
knowing only how to search
around the world
Which starts with the new day.
I don’t know how it will happen
But I know it will
Torna
all'indice Autore
Globalization
This morning I noticed a
lady from the Milan beau monde
arm-in-arm with an elegant lady
in a burka
As they were crossing at the
light,
people looked at the strange
couple
bewildered and confused...
And I was thinking…
that the other side of the road
was still far-away …
When the light turned green
restless motorcyclists took off
breathing a sigh of relief…
Torna
all'indice Autore
The Wait
Feel the people’s moods
Today there is silence
Listen to the people’s words
Tomorrow will be too late
The squares are now deserted
A pigeon pecks at a piece of
bread
A passer-by runs into a lost
tourist
An empty stage waits for the
wind to scatter the dust…
Torna
all'indice Autore
Deception
It’s strange to realize you are
alive
you wonder why you are here with
all the others (who are they?)
Perhaps it’s the work of a
deceitful, fugacious God
(captive in a watery body)
Even time, neuronic clown,
is the vision of a rotten fruit,
which splatters and converts to
the humus of new soil…
