Connect

Long, very.
The day, the night, it matters not.
I wait, and the wait is long, very.
Prelude to a bounce, says my self,
just being busy, while you're not, says my ego.
All I really look for is to rest
safe, steady, right in the eye of the storm.
And from there to spread my arms out
and touch, and understand through touching,
the whirling winds that are shaking,
once again,
the foundations and walls and roofs and windows of my puny shelter.
As doomed to failure as it may be,
I find impossible to resist the urge.
Reach out: connect.

The Place outside of Time

Engulfed in sweet molasses,
dried by kisses, confused by caresses;
alert, silent vigil on a restless night,
failing to realise
that a morning would not come.
Held tenderly in the gloom,
cracking lips
scouring chlorine from her skin;
trembling fingers gently probing
the surprises of her curves.

In darkness I got in,
by darkness I walked out
from the Place outside of Time.

Deep at the blackest end
of the longest night
flashes her lingering scent,
flickers an impression
of the arches of her lips,
glow the pulsing beats
of the moist shrine
surrounded by her hips.

Skittish

I'm there again.
In that place between past mistakes
and new opportunities to make new, bigger ones.

Why am I doing this again?
It's not to measure myself against new challenges.
It's not purely out of frustration either.
I'm doing this because it's all I have come to know,
It's the one way I have practiced in the past few years.

Sure sign of character stiffening with age.
I may be cocking this big time,
Or I may come to find a place which feels right to me.

I know it not, yet, of course.

So I add black fear to my usual restlessness.
And hope that some good will come of it.
Fool.

A Lament for Marco

You used to toy with me,your favourite silly midget,
running, nearly without touching the ground,
and yet you strode away at impressive speeds.

You stretched your long legs, and left me behind,
shouting the name of your favourite athlete,
the one you so much wanted to emulate.

You smiled, and joked, and laughed,
your gentle eyes shining so bright
as to conceal the scar on the side of your head.

You were able to spread mirth to others,
in the face of that ugly beast
that kept gnawing at your endless vitality.

But yesterday you got distracted
and the beast got you.

I will have you in front of me
for each and every step i'll ever take
with my running shoes on.

You are not an inch away from the eyes,
a smidge away from the heart,
Alive and full of joy as ever.

Immigraniada (we're coming rougher)

Push, squeeze,
compress us.

Be lavish in wasting our humanity,
smother our lifetimes with no regrets,
Scorn us for the flavours of our roots.

Abhor difference,
seek homogeneity;
trade your freedom of thought
for perception of safety.

Since vases do communicate,
the requital will be humongous.
We're coming rougher every time.

Dicotomia

Il lavoro di una vita,
e gli errori di ogni giorno.

The Crucible

A peculiar moment,
an atom of time,
a myriad questions
coalescing to a singular point.
Mumbay beckoning:
I AM.

The Wanderer Pt. III

Surprise!
Wandering, endlessly in search of the new and unexpected,
DOES have its benefits.
Such as chance-meeting two very, very good humans I like to call friends, already,
and opening up to them, half-drunk.
Seeing them attentively listening, even understanding reasons and ways.
That is my definition of Happiness, them the personification of humanity.
Shoes patched up, tiredness forgotten, optimism bubbling again.
Thank you, you two.

The Wanderer Pt. II

Wandering does have side effects, unfortunately.
There is such a thing as tiredness,
creeping up through my worn out shoes.
There is boredom, which scars my bent back,
the whip held by the hands of uncountable experiences.
Having gotten so high, so soon, has a heavy, heavy price to be paid.
Social dynamics I've seen too many times,
and know and can read so much quicker than others,
make me old before my time.
It's difficult, very difficult,
to try and push the boundaries of my own little garden,
when that garden is many a mile across,
and each attempt to push takes creativity and energy:
first to recognize a path to the boundary,
amidst the thickets and dead trees making it harder by the try,
and then the energy to attempt another heave,
where the force needed, and the direction of the push,
can make me fail when applied wrongly,
but do not guarantee any result at all when applied correctly...
It's a game of huge expenditures, and no certainties.
Risky, and unrewarding.
Yet, yet it's an unavoidable necessity,
if I want to keep on living.

The Wanderer

Perchance,
I've seen this already.
Perhaps,
a few times over.
I wandered a bit, you know?
Places of the earth,
of the mind,
of the heart,
of the soul.
I'd say you can stop
whispering,
shaking the head,
calling me strange,
fool,
socio-path.
I know those names,
I made them mine
a long while back.
Petty price to pay,
when grabbing life by the horns,
knowing it will grab back.
It's simply the lack of newness
that bores me
to inconceivable depths.
It sure is my own fault.
So get over it.

The Cynic

I am a Cynic, there's no denying the obvious.

It becomes stark the moment I meet the vainglorious.
I see those as petty animals, only half human, lotus eaters, lovers of their self.
And it's right then, when it bursts in a million hot needles.
Searing pain criss-cross my soul, white heat swells in my conscience.
Pure, unmitigated rage.

Accomplices of the degraded society we live in, do you not see your hand in the works to give it continuity?
Makers of the fat icon you then adore, do you not understand?
The reek of rotten is oblivious to your nostrils, the feeble attempt to stop time leaves no bitter trace on your palates?
Fixed in a point in time and space (silly, futile!), do you not realise you'll be gone before the next blink of the eyelids?
Can you not see the wrinkles growing around your eyes, your breasts succumbing to gravity?
And what is your answer to it?
Conjuring up an image, acting like there is no flow?

I'd shout in your faces, slap you hard on the cheeks to put some sense in your heads.
But it's not for me to educate anyone, so I walk away with any pretence of judgement, and go scrubbing your pots in the kitchen.
Knowing they'll outlast you.

The Jerk - Pt. II

Closing my eyes,
I wield the power of creation.

The Jerk

Through mimicking,
It achieves.

The Voice

I turn around,
my usual prance
where beers abound:
perhaps by chance,
out of nowhere,
The Voice is there.

Her beaming smile
contains no guile,
Those jasper eyes
now show surprise,
the gaze, so intense,
is right on me, without pretence:
she has never once
beheld me askance.

The space between us closes:
her smell, like damask roses,
stops my beat
and chokes my breath,
just before she makes the choice
to release her golden Voice.

The space of an "Hellow" to rapture me
in a place where i am floating free:
as festive bells chime their kind warnings
on an Easter's spring glorious morning,
I'm brushed by the sound of her gentle Rs,
rolled in bundles, glittering as stars
dripping like welcomed mountain dew
condensed out of the sky's deep blue
at the early break of dawn
on my dry, forsaken lawn.

The sweet, sweet tones of her phonemes
bind me tight to a constant dream:
that I may drink for long to come,
like a small kid suckling a thumb,
from all the sweet The Voice creates
until, if ever, my thirst satiates.

The night has come: I'm wide awake.
As we part ways and company,
The Voice is guilty of larceny.
For I walk empty and parched again,
whatever was it's hard to explain,
and there's one thing that makes me ache:
I do realise
The Voice committed heinous crime!

Vanity Fair

There I was,
surrounded,
unsettled,
a slightly gaping mouth,
with eyes
I couldn't close,
and ears
I couldn't plug.

Amongst some beauty,
real,
so much was out of whack.
To them,
is likely just a game.
To me,
it screamed of
badly containable Vanity.

Flies,
all there really was,
buzzing wildly
around the light.
Or was it shite?

Unfinished,
diminished,
deformed,
huge eyes,
empty hearts,
fluttering details
in front of some glass,
never quite a mirror.

I walked,
just before the puke.
No, I mean,
Thankyou anyway.

The Clown and his red nose

A night started
with theatre,
continued
with drama,
and ended
with a clown performance.

Open-scene applause!
I can only
Gracefully bow.

All I'm left with,
though,
it's memories
of what might have been
and a bruised, red nose.

The Abyss

It's not
like one can stop
time,
by staring
into the abyss
of the past.

Il Telo

Preferirei essere un quadro,
che un telo da cinema
buono solo per la proiezione
degli altrui desideri.

E' che si deve fare
con quel che s'ha.

The possible futures

I'm but a beggar
of possible futures,
which keep coming back,
to me,
as lost pasts.

Perdita di memoria a breve termine

Eravamo cosi' stonati,
che il rumore delle macchine
in Via Porpora
suonava come il Mediterraneo
sulle coste rocciose di Augusta
nel millenovecentonovantaquattro.

Wisdom and Folly

Oh wise,
hast thou no pulse,
thine ascetic
heart
turned aseptic?

Weeping,
withering,
writhing and waning.
Thine blood shrivelled to sand,
no fruits left to bear?

Exert control,
conjure illusions:
for at that time,
while fast asleep...

- wanton dreams came! (Away, Away!) -

...another one
hast held her hand.

The Sea

First came the smell.
That clear scent of living things,
the tang of algae and salt
assailing
my nostrils and tongue,
along with the sting
of shells and fishes:
There's the Sea,
close by,
and it bears a story
worth being told.

I screamed, and shouted.
Flailed my arms,
acted the fool.
The Sea
Listened
in near silence.

Then came the growling sound
of rolling,
encroaching waves
gently lapping
the dry sands
of my conscience.
"What was that again?",
I wondered.

And it was already too late.

For the tide is upon me now.
And I should run from it,
as it slowly rises:
the tips of my toes,
first,
the bridge of my feet,
the ankles
then.

I am a midget
that can't swim:
the end result is clear.
It's by now at my knees;
still there is a way out.

But as I look upon you,
oh Sea,
engrossed by the chaos
which gave you shores and meaning,
I am lost in contemplation
of your deep blues,
your shallow greens,
your turmoiled whites.

And up you rise,
stating no intent,
claiming no purpose.
Yet you have me by the hips,
now,
and I really ought to escape.

The warnings are there.
The red flags you shake
with impetuous motions,
letting me know
that you have an Ego.
Showing me the bodies
- still alive, if barely -
of others you enthralled
with the lure of your depths.

Now neck deep in your waters,
I feel no fear.
Only the need
to finally say goodbye
to a life past,
the desire
to drown
into thine salty-sweet humours,
oh Sea.

Hence I smile,
spring my arms out wide,
and take the plunge.
I know,
I know you'll have a care,
beloved,
unruly Sea.

The Hours - Pt. II

It has to be down to false perception.
It has to.

Has wishing for something the power to create it?
Does the wish itself bend events around its singular purpose?

Is a wish a transatlantic boat that cuts through the waves of time,
leaving ripples behind?
Do we have such power?

Or is it more akin to a water flea,
skimming over the surface while it's nice and calm,
and drowning into it when the going gets tough?

Is it down to intent,
or is it the mixing of a myriad chances,
seemingly playing into a man's desire,
only because he cannot see
the myriad other ones playing against it?

Is it us, in other words,
seeing a pattern where none exist,
simply because reality is unfathomable,
and we need to survive it?

So what's the answer:
taming reality into false cause-effect simplicity
or
embracing chaos while letting go of control?

I keep furiously biting my nails.

The Collective Organism

How could I not See,
Who had Deafened me?

What has kept me Numb,
What did sour my Taste?

Who did plug my Smell,
How could I not Feel?

Ego is just The Mask,
The Self but an Illusion,

Mordacious in my steps,
I missed the Revelation.

Elation bubbles now,
and will forever more,

discovering I am Naught
but a bit of the Grandiose.

The truth has swelled completely,
it's clear as day's first light:

Humanity is not Many:
for we are kin of Cells.

Each with their own task,
we Are and fleet away.

Persistence we can't find
unless we Leave our place,

as Multitudes have done
and Countless will, again,

to New and Unforeseen:
of us but a small Trace,

as times and times Dictate.
I'm left with but one Hope:

before our very End
that we shall try and Learn

to stop our childish Squabbling,
and grow to make Amend.