I'll not add
burden to my words
let my lips be sealed
lest I cause more hurt
the best have been uttered
what's left should be purged
and yours I've long heard
we both lost our way
we fell backward--

words, words, words
the more said
the more absurd
unworthy as dirt

we are somehow
each a betrayer of truth
it's easy to understand
lies, oh how they suit!

let me be a child
only then could I be good
every word spoken
would be beyond guile
never crude nor rude

in these days darkening
(  in impassioned reflecting)
I wish I could
expunge what I said
rid myself of the counterfeit
and pretence totally shed

Il poeta è un uccello
che becca le parole
sotto la neve del normale
viene sul davanzale
e scappa, impaurito
se lo vuoi catturare
Il poeta è femmina
Il poeta è gagliardo
ha qualcosa, nello sguardo
che tu dici: è un poeta
Spesso è analfabeta
ma è meglio
è piú immediato
il poeta è un ammalato
colitico, fegatoso, asmatico
il poeta è antipatico, scontroso
ombroso: guai
chiamarlo poeta
è una cometa
che annuncia un mondo nuovo
è assolutamente inutile
è un fallito
è un pappagallo di partito
è organico, no,
è fatto d'aria
ha nella penna tutta intera
la rabbia proletaria
è sopra la politica
è sopra il mondo
il poeta è tisico e biondo
il poeta è sempre suicida
il poeta è un furbone
il poeta è una sfida
alle banalità del mondo
il poeta è assolutamente
del tutto normale
il poeta è omosessuale
il poeta è un santo
il poeta è una spia
poi un giorno va via
in un isola lontana
o anche a puttana
e lascia un gran vuoto
nella poesia
la sua
il poeta è il titolo
di questa mia.

Look at me.
I have my side soaked with these sparks
melting away so many veiled winters.
There’s ivy in the songs I listen to
at nights
and that thin line that separates (interpreting us)
the want for each other
from the want to ravish one another.

I don’t know.
Nostalgize me.
Let’s go back to blinks and look at us
right before you end us...
“Able or unable?”
Madrid was burning yet there was a kiss
in which we didn’t care about
dying in flames.

Take out the camera and capture this:
The Moon cries as well
knowing it will never
be able to reach the wolf.

[...]
He walked to my left
so as not to stop brushing against my heart.
He settled down legs tired from encircling my head
right next to mine
and whispered to me things that I’ll take with me to my grave.

He left ink in my mouth,
undressed his back
and beckoned me to write our story.

Disgusting.

I saw him smile and I understood that my whole life
had been a mockery,
as if love could be drawn
and weren’t a boy missing the bus.

He saved me from the jaws of a dragon,
put a coin in the fortune’s hands,
drew a song from his underwear
and we danced together in French,
he stripped to stop the taxis,
forgot about his house,
and when he found a way to warm up my feet
my head fell asleep on his thighs
and the world
was a bedroom drenched in stars.

**** it,
it was prettier than a dolphin breaking through the waves,
hands wrapping up magic, preceded by his tongue,
a scarf in the clutches of the wind,
it was a ******* kiss in the middle of the war.

Then he went away
because this is what the people we will love forever do,
and when he did it, I understood everything:
“Love is a cage opened towards the sky”
Ever since that moment I haven’t opened a door
that tends to close itself.

You spunky *******...
I fell in love with you,
don’t you ever dare to forget that

Penciliving and other meltdowns
on the beauty of the sad boys,
those who keep in their pupils’ intensity,
a terrorist’s extremity,
on the one who can’t choose between two
paths and in the middle prey becomes,
on the mouth full of salt
and the sea’s cries that for its remembrance exalt,
on a mouth that stings from no return,
from the inside
and inwards,
this is the only way of writing I know.
Gather your broken heart,
and confess yourself:
make love to your battles,
submerge into poetry
like an impostor holding their breath
in an amphibian world,
vow to yourself (and thereby, the most worthy
of all the loves) the eternal freedom.

Coming up at my face in
charcoal, embossed,
in canvas, then hung
That’s cast anew,
that made it through-
After and at so many endings,
Blizzard, joy, death and sun
mending,
A Shepherd’s life through trials
as me, given in-
Is that finally it? Tell me, Heart, did I
Come to know the key? Yes!
Redemption arrived therein!
After that long time;
Look, I no longer
Have what you think it takes,
Saw more light in night than day,
But, indeed, honey in that
canvas’ eyes swirls back
Again,
Every shade a muster of reflection,
Fingers are grazing in sensitivity
No surgeon can try to beat,
Black lips glimmer in heat-
Shush, the point of
Such sight?
Just: that I can look in that
canvas mirror
Back,
That all realisation greets my mind.
That a narcissist is the
highest claim of support and love.
That after all
The path
All mirage left,
And broken
I know

who
i
am.

(... Yes, the battle has seen its end...
Sword’s placed in peace in proud,
Murky earth.)