Something is
simmering  *  
  ****      
His spice the stars*
His cologne heat up the
woods
Lips and taste boiling
The Green Irish Tweed
Epicurean love at
the Italian
Spice Epic Stadium

Here comes the
Sun the__?
Royal Mayfair
strikingly
My Fair Lady
The spice diction of words
Her name is Sage Lady Bird
You could feel her smile
shimmering

Carnal spice knowledge
Savory animalistic
Spice culture ******
Citrusy fancy dress
Not to panic
His Sunday gravy
Italian sauce garlicky  
She could win so pungent
Spicy lady Pagent

The poor stealing the
rich culture
Sage surrender like the Oz
Like Robin Hood

Spice of life this is our life
Top of the sea salt Spy
scouring
You better have a love
Like a deep pouring
Her Sage Genie bottle
on the stove
Her sheerness lascivious robe

The Meditteranean sea with
Four leaf clovers freeloaders
These cultures and eyes of
strength feature
There is no time to
break up for the love of a spice
Is this the human race
Fresh linens better company
What a primary
Oh! Hail Mary

Those ethnic spices
what a sensual smell
Sage pretty coffee cup show and tell
What a razzle top of her cake
The media takes over all
painted and swirled
Baked spicy finger she dialed

Through her locket heart sake
Recovered love reconciled
The Teddy Rosevelt or Chicago Bears
tight hugs of cultures

Hairy chest his smooth gestures
Culture rough and tough exterior

Like the smile beautiful mind
creature
Beyond to be seen
The Spices computer
world of devices
Strawberry fields forever
But what is forever more love
Crises

Do we always lose our stripes
Feeling layered with her cereal
Tony the tiger
Whats great about curses
Sage speechless can feel the
roar spicy mouth
Going South or North
Victorian corset sensual
Guity spice dark side of Goth
Hot desire from both
The pine needles
Christmas time
The mistletoe kissing pointing to the star
Wearing herself out with her
pointed pump shoe*
But losing her spirit what to
endeavor
*The Blue Horizon Spice Rub
The  pub the sky has no limits
to the Stars that twinkle
The Gods to their *****
Rip Van Winkle
Dry Vermouth or the Russian Roulette
French spice Crepe Suzette

"Adam I Apple Dante Jubilee
Eve was more like a neigh
Horse spicy slide Colonel Spicy mustard
Meeting General Lee Sage custard

Her handkerchief
with sage cut leaves
Hearing echoes what gives
Anyone's spice rack
of shoes engraves Sage leafs

Noone really knows for sure
She wore spice deep blue velvet
Jade Ring Brittish Colony
Stuck to her beliefs like a magnet

Eating vegetable and fish
Her best China ever find her dish

How the jade chandelier twisted
Became laughing like two musketeers
New York City love Serendipity
The Queen chair so domineer
'What Debutants"
Crazed like spices of mutants
The anger management getting
the evil out
The shoutbox strong clove spice
Sage was never outfoxed
Her **** jaded uniform
The firefighter Smoky the bear
  eyes of candlelight storm
didn't make it this year
Torn to tears like two
vultures of
the haunted night
He peddles fast
But the fear needs to disappear

Fresh lake smells fresh
as her breath
The culture and media
make tons of mistakes
She knows what she wants
Not a jungle of
poisonous snakes
He knows what he doesn't want
to tell her
Perhaps losing his
bark dog naps
The best part engage her on
Sage with a heart
The fruit her
flesh and blood
The blood on his finger
Her medicinal herbs
of China
The mason spice jar is empty
The full heart needs his half
Cream of the crop
Careless love accidentally
spice dropped
Sensual Chin like pine needles
The exception to the rule more leaders
Remember Every September
to leave your scent
We all have needs we want
Drinking all the flavors of Snapple
*Big waves of the ripple don't you
love her amazing dimples

He told me he stopped smoking.
Threw away the packs of Mayfair
into the river next to his house.
The river where we once spent the evening
talking about why stars align the way they do,
As if they know what they are doing.
Neither of us knows what we are doing.

We are tea stained maps,
And fragile lungs,
And he is bruised fingertips from writing ‘I don’t love you. I’m sorry.’
I am shallow breaths in early winter.
Waking up at five to five to wait for the sun to rise.

He is made of sugar cubes
And campfires;
Glowing in the dead of the night
As if they have a right
To be the main attraction.
We are 3am scribbles in notebooks

And origami warriors.
You folded me so easily
With your piano playing fingers.
And when I wasn’t looking,
You made me into a boat and pushed me onto that same river.
Lit matches for a sail and finally, let me burn.

"Werewolves Of London"

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for the place called Lee ** ****'s
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Werewolves of London

If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London

He's the hairy handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor
Werewolves of London

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect
Werewolves of London again
Draw blood

The sound of a pin dropping on tin could be heard,
without a word
she came in and she ordered
a gin
and the beginning began to unfold.
She was old, maybe older,I was cold
she was colder but the alcohol soon warmed
her through.
Her name was Susan,Sue for short and
she was up for some sport,
The question that I asked was,
was I?
The evening flew by
there was a gleam in her eye
there was fear in my heart,
I said, 'goodbye',
she said
'let's not part'
she wanted something to start
I wanted something to end
she attacked
I tried to defend but in
the end which I did not see,
she took me to an
ecstasy.
Pinned against a fantasy
and no one
heard me fall.

In the hanging kitchen, the smell-
cut cayenned sausage, ejective tomato slices
the whole thing in the back of the throat, inflamed.
Olive oil. Vinegar. Billie talks about her "girl
friend." She lives in Mayfair. (Almost pretty;
don't look too long.)

At times I feel sick.

American man he
strikes the figure of a half-God
broad-shouldered, burned
he does Not exist, John Henry
split his bust long ago and we
are huddled small boys imperfect
in the dust of his legacy.

Our fathers stood from dinner tables kissed
wives were kissed by children one last sip of old
wines and walked into the night looking
for burned-up lamps, the memories of mountains.
Ate stone. Drank mist.
(A thirst for adventure is close to your heart.)
Fell into the grit, the failure, fell
into everything.
(Little else has taste once the spice of life is on your tongue.)

I have nothing but my understanding.
I want to be swaddled, paralytically blind, shamelessly loved.
Or to go out in the wicker
world, there to find whatever our best
died looking for, tigers or ruins or
a life after adventure.

The squire and me see
eye to eye
I bow and scrape as
he goes by and
kiss his feet
but
he is the one that lives
on easy street

has a butler too

one day
it will be me you see
when we see eye to eye
and
I will be the
squire that you watch
as
I go passing by.

Wonder down Mayfair on a busy afternoon
There in all its beauty lies a shop
Where succulent pastries are served
And cakes that ooze the simple delights of life
Established in 1854 and a survivor of two world wars
A national treasure never honoured
It leaves a lasting taste
The owner is a little Italian gent
Named Romeo which is quite quaint
A ***** named Nigel sits underneath the window
Begging for food or some change
And this is where the magic takes place
Cause Romeo truly shows his heart
When he gives Nigel a large sticky eclair
He then tends to his customers modestly
The police never move the man named Nigel
Cause Romeo wants the sign of the times to stay
Not to be moved from under the window
Of his Old Cake Shop in the heart of busy Mayfair

Un vischio, fin dall'infanzia sospeso grappolo
di fede e di pruina sul tuo lavandino
e sullo specchio ovale ch'ora adombrano
i tuoi ricci bergére fra santini e ritratti
di ragazzi infilati un po' alla svelta
nella cornice, una caraffa vuota,
bicchierini di cenere e di bucce,
le luci di Mayfair, poi a un crocicchio
le anime, le bottiglie che non seppero aprirsi,
non più guerra né pace, il tardo frullo
di un piccione incapace di seguirti
sui gradini automatici che ti slittano in giù….

I first met her at the market
Right in front of the butcher’s bench
White skin she had, a bit scarlet
Clucking a lot, she wore a trench

Little and silky Hermès scarf
Horn-rimmed glasses laid on her hair:
Money came from Canary Wharf
Her home was surely in Mayfair

Immediately my plan was made:
I’ll soon get her tossed in my ***
- High standing geese got to get laid -
I would then take her whole jackpot

I got her laughing and dreaming
I did apply all the secrets
Allowing us the besieging
Of pretty chicks with no regrets

In Hertford Street, where she opened
Her house, her heart and even dress
I swept the board of what she served:
Both her reason and prudishness

Then came the time for robbery
- Bit of a rush before she twigs -
And it began to be scary:
The goose was working for the pigs

In a very special unit
Where they do learn some useful things:
The fight, the gun, how to hit
While putting on fishnet stockings

With headbutts, pengs against my fame
She got me stuffed like some fall guys
I cried a bit and I became
No golden eggs only black eyes

Sat in the doorway,
a throwaway man with a
cigarette and beer can
and a hangdog look on his face.

In this city of wealth,poverty takes some by stealth,
those who are healthy and fit often don't give a ****,it's not them in the doorway,they cannot see themselves brought down so low,
but go down to Mayfair or Stepney or Bow,there's a tidal flow of the throwaway men,who have nowhere to stay and if they do, then,
there is no job for them,no way to earn
and the cigarette burns,the beer can is crushed, a bit like the throwaways beaten and rushed to an end.

The end is an end by no means,
to the hungry and needy
who watch as the well fed and greedy go by,who sigh through the day in a throwaway kind of a throwaway way,
but it's what people expect from the 'workshy' and worthless,the cesspit of the city, and life does not pity them,nor do the throwaway men really care,
sitting there
in the doorway
where there seems no way
to escape.

There once was a woman named Mrs Bess
Who couldn't find her own address
She got slightly confused on the way there
And ended up at a village this side of Mayfair
Not being able to find her address stressed Mrs Bess

My father who art in heaven
May he be also a masterpiece
Like eleven
May my main man also join the skies
That part the seas like milky lights.
May my man bring with him me
As a tourist of the nightlife.
Wife me up and hold me tight
Like the stars cling onto the duly skies.

May my main man be the mainest of them all
Sure a little mean isn’t bad at all
Nay he never become a Mayfair sayer
Or a naysayer to his wife’s call.
Today I call upon thee
To help me free fall.
Tall and fully
In love with you truly
You are my one and only all.

My uncle lived in a big old house
At the end of Mayfair Drive,
With thirteen rooms and a library,
Whilst he was still alive.
But he jumped one day from the second floor
And he hit the ground so hard
That his blood spread out like a pair of horns,
There in his own front yard.

We didn’t know why he had to jump,
It wasn’t a lack of cash,
His health was good, but before he jumped
He’d broken out in a rash,
The maid had brought him his morning tea
Had watched him put back a book,
Up on the topmost shelf it went
And he’d said to her, ‘Don’t look!’

The rash spread quickly under his arms
With pustules down in the groin,
The doctor said at the autopsy
That one was shaped like a coin.
‘You’d swear that there was a devil’s head
Imprinted there in his blood,
I’ve never seen anything like it since
And I hope that I never should.’

But my father moved us into the house
Now, with his brother gone,
He locked us out of the library
But went in there on his own.
There were shelves and shelves of books in there
And one on the topmost shelf,
The maid had whispered, ‘You’d best beware!’
But he took it down himself.

I noticed he wore his patent gloves
Whenever he went in there,
I peeped in through a crack in the door
And saw him stand on a chair,
The book was old, had a mouldy look
For the leather was turning green,
It looked like a fungus, taken root,
And the whole thing looked unclean.

As days went by I began to hear
Some babble behind the door,
And incense came in a steady stream
Out from a crack by the floor,
My father didn’t come out for meals
His voice was becoming hoarse,
He’d take a tray at about midday
But never a second course.

The maid resigned on the first of June
She said that she saw his face,
Was shivering uncontrollably
And muttering, ‘Loss of grace!’
The cook took both of us under her wing
And swore that she’d see us fed,
But wouldn’t come out of her tiny room
At dusk, she’d ‘rather be dead!’

The fire broke out in the library
On a Sunday, after Mass,
I caught a glimpse of my father then,
His face was as green as grass,
The shelves and the books had grown a mould
And it spread all over the floor,
I knew I had to get out of there
And ran right out of the door.

My father leapt from the window then
Came crashing down in the drive,
I knew before I got close to him
He couldn’t have been alive.
Two horns spread out from the place his head
Had crumpled into the ground,
But these were horns of a green fungi
Like the book on the shelf he’d found.

They quarantined us around that house
And came with chemical sprays,
‘This fungus seems to be hard to ****,
It’s going to take us days!’
They checked the wreck of the library,
I even went in myself,
With everything burnt to a crisp, still lay
A book on the topmost shelf!

David Lewis Paget

Afternoon tea,
just for you, and me
Claridge's, Mayfair,
perhaps a woodland,
cabin that is fare,
but still thinking Mayfair,
we could create a setting here,
just the two of us,
my dear
Deep in the woodland,
no combustible fair,
sandwiches cut delicately,
into fingers,
my dear,
scones with clotted cream,
and, jam, sweet pastries,
and, cakes
Is your mind thinking,
of the benefit stakes,
or the woodland humdrum
So long as running water,
is there for me ***,
yes dear,
lots of lakes, and streams,
on this land,
you will see Mayfair,
when you relax, sit,
and, not stand.

© 2020  Carol Natasha Diviney

I take my coffee black and my sweaters long sleeved, and I walk on weekends down the market lane, with tender hope of seeing her. Today I did.

Now I'm a man of 45, but don't think for one second that I don't remember the way her tiny vein-lined hand grasped my 18 year old shoulder, the way she laughed at how I tensed up, from too much love, or harder memories. I loved the way she laughed, and I shuddered when I heard it as she stood over by the craft stall with a crochet blue scarf wrapped around those same hands. She had grown 42 from years apart, birthday last week, and I'd sat alone and thought of her all day.
I never quite recovered from our three year adolescent romance. It felt more like an Earthquake. I walked through bustling noon-washed streets and traced her soft blonde hair and lithe frame, and I swear I almost felt it on my fingertips again. I should probably have forgotten about her by now, but nobody forgets Earthquakes.

The pavements were lined with people desperately trying to drown her out but she's burnt into my eyes now, and I felt like kicking myself for remembering when I burnt every picture of her in stolen *****. I hated her for about ten minutes. Now I'm 45 and seeing her again has latched a youthful taste in my mouth, and the vivid memory of stained pink cigarette papers from her red lips rolled over me like a tide. I gave up smoking five years ago, I wonder if she ever did. For a moment I lost her in the haze but she was sat in a café alone, looking like she needed someone. 

I thought briefly about sitting beside her and waiting for her eyes to meet mine and glaze over with tears at being reunited with me. And I thought about how she'd tell me how she's been so lonely, and she missed my lips pressed against her neck as if there was a part missing when they weren't. I watched her, and she looked alone. But oh God, she's beautiful. 

The way she sat there lit a bliss inside of me. I watched her, and melted into her mulling gaze, her lips fell open lazily as she observed what was left of the early afternoon rush hour crowds. I decided to sit across the room, just close enough to see the colour in her eyes. I thought some more about how happy she'd be to see me again, leaping out of her seat to greet me, her paper-thin frame clutching to my fleshy torso, and we'd breathe in our scents like we always did. My mind even wandered briefly to her nakedness, protected by bed sheets, as we writhed around beneath them. Her girlish ******* hovering above me, black pupils swelling with unadulterated want. That's what we were like back then. She had no intention of settling down with me, we only squeezed every last bit of adventure out of each other. I found myself continuing to envision her smile entwined with my smile, swallowing down the memory of our bitter, painful departure. I pretended that the last time I saw her wasn't when she slammed her front door in my face, tears blistering her cheeks. I've been pretending for so long, it's like it didn't happen after all.

I observed her all the while, high cheekboned face softly highlighted by the pastel sky of spring outside. This was a quiet café, and I could hear the light tapping of her high heeled foot against the chair leg. She bent down to pick up her handbag and retrieved a pack of blue Mayfair cigarettes and placed them on the table- I suppose that answered my previous question. She sighed heavily, and it then occurred to me that she might be waiting for someone. A friend perhaps, or her sister who always hated me. I'd been watching her for a full ten minutes when her eyes finally met mine. My heart shuddered in its cage and my blood was flowing at such a speed that I didn't notice at first that she wasn't staring at me at all. No, she simply skimmed over me, pupils flickering rapidly, her brain registering me as just another face in the crowd. When I finally noticed this, it was like something inside me had shrivelled up and died. All the hopeful lust, all those years of being consumed by her, I'd been waiting all along for a dull glance. I looked down, and watched my beating heart slide pathetically to the floor and wilt there. 

When I looked up again, I was greeted by the image of her standing to greet a family of two. A man, around my age, tall and skinny with greying hair and thick-rimmed glasses. I watched her slender arms wrap around him, then their lips lock in a disgusting embrace. I couldn't stop the ******* tears from flowing. I looked down again and my heart was having a seizure on the floor, blood oozing from each exhausted vein. 
I paused when I heard the dulcet laughter of the second person. 

A young girl stood, skinny and blonde and heavenly, pale blue eyes gleaming like springtides. With each giggle my mind ached with the image of her mother, spinning in endless circles, her blonde hair wrapping around her neck, and that same laughter in the air. I almost choked when I saw that girl. My eyes exchanged desperate looks between mother and the daughter, the embodiment of whom I loved. With each arduous second my throbbing heartbeat became louder and louder, overshadowing the noise of the customers asking me if I was okay. And she had noticed me too. This time, her eyes met mine with recognition, and her perfect face twisted into an expression of sorrow. She began walking towards me, my whole face turned numb. 

''Sir, are you alright?'' The soft delicacy in her voice rattled my skull and erupted in my brain. I rolled my head back and forth on my folded arms, and my resounding breath caught up in my woollen sleeves drowned out any other sound that wasn't her voice. ''What's your name?'' She asked me. I lifted my head in a daze, and let the wave of blistering unhappiness wash over, and finally crash behind me. The only thing I saw was her daughter. Terrifyingly beautiful, as if the woman stood by my side was sixteen again, and peering at me with total, innocent obliviousness. She was her double. A cut-out photograph gazing at me. And we stared at each other for a while. She was everything to me, and I was nobody. 

''I'm nobody.'' I responded weakly. ''Absolutely nobody.''I'm still trying to decide whether I'm satisfied with this, but I thought I'd post it anyway. I spent an excruciating amount of time trying to decide whether to write this in the format of a letter to the ''woman'' or addressed to some kind of external person(s). Anyway.

Dismal has became helter skelter
most ladies in Mayfair  seem worn
they're tired, waylaid in fur
but its still a man's world then

The soothsayers grin
England lost to Poland in the qualifiers.
The aftershock of the energy crisis
sees new Sheikhs
money rolls like oil,
it buys and buys for some
even for the horses competing
at the London Riding Horse Parade.

We played our childish game of seven minutes in heaven,
when I knew very well that I should have gone to hell.
We played an endless game of  nicky nicky nine doors,
because the floors were lava and we had no where else to go.
Too little hiding and too little seeking to find what we wanted,
or to even run away from what we truly honoured.
We played games like children playing breaking bricks,
trying to break traditions set by parents from years earlier.
We chose to play a 'til we die' game called arranged marriage,
because operation made for a better game than abortion,
and it's all distorted marketing; trying to sell parkinsons-
to veterans with medicine prices sky rocketing.
We lived in a time where playing cops and robbers
meant playing tax offices trying to honour tax on coffins.
Take the heinous nature of human and discount it forward,
we are not all as evil as we seem, but we still play jump rope
with the sensitive lines hidden behind media's eyes,
we play jump rope with politics because it was always fun-
to lunge up the ladder in a game of snakes and ladders.
We all played at monogamy like it was a game of monopoly,
constantly competing for marriage like it was Mayfair on the board.
We've boarded on a train of imagination with fetishes and kinks,
trying to rethink what the ordinary could never provide,
and I admit, i lost in the game called tinder but I don't lose sleep
knowing I haven't matched with someone who swiped right.
We built campfire out of torches because there's still a light
in the horse **** we go through on a daily basis,
and we hold our tragic faces trying to compete with the sob stories
of modern day Romeo and juliet's because what's best is beyond us.
So I tire of playing Simon Says when I know quite well that
we play duck duck goose with bullets and guns hoping the fun
doesn't reach us too soon because there's still some fun in funeral.
We played our childish game of seven minutes in heaven,
when I knew very well that I should have gone to hell.

I feel like we've been walking
these streets forever. My hand
in yours, my heart beating like a
****** clock, the smell of ***,
Marlboro and Mayfair
kissing my collar

I inhale the perfume,
the chemical reactions of
our flesh touching, feel the
electricity shoot through my
body

Exhale slowly, letting the breath
linger on my lips for a second
the air between our mouths
glows red with hunger

But we're not giving it up

I saw you in the light of the Mayfair sun
And the sky cracked open
Wide, and blinding
Bigger than the whole city
Deeper than lighting striking a valley
Hot white silver as my heart
As holy as the ocean
With no end, and no clear start
Velvet like the lines in your palms
Breathtaking as the thread we’re hanging on

Late at night, body's yearning
Restless night, want to be with you

Someone's playing in the garden
So enticing, sure to take a bite

I don't what's come over me...

So I'm saying...

Baby baby, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Got me out of bed, heard you call my Name
What's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Tell me, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?

My Heart, My Soul,
My Love has got to go...
It's a thrill, of my will... (shall I?)
Be misled, be for real?

Thought I knew her, this lady
Th' Illusionist, misled...

Always searching for adventure
Like Pandora's box, misled

And I don't what I'm going to do...
My Mayfair...

Baby baby, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Got me out of bed, heard you call my Name
What's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Tell me, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?

And...

My Heart, And My Soul,
And My Love, has got to go...
It's a thrill, of our will...
My misled, won't you be for real?

I got this feeling that's making its way,
But I'll love her just the same, just the same...

Mislead, heard you call my Name,
Mislead, what's your claim to th' Flame?
Mislead, took me by the hand,
Mislead, said I would understand,

Mislead, of all my broken dreams,
Mislead, the now of the world is not what it seems,

Mislead, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Mislead, got me out of bed, do you believe in the Name?
Mislead, what's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Mislead, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?

Mislead,
Mislead...

Baby baby, what's your claim to th' (Sacred) Flame?
Got me out of bed, heard you call my Name
What's this crazy place, you want to take me to?
Tell me, what's this (Hidden) Fire? If I go with you?

My Heart, My Soul,
My Love has got to go...
It's a thrill, of our will? (Shall we...)
Be mislead? And be lost forevermore?

Tycoon man of property
In Mayfair they found
Him dead.
It looked like
****** a bullet to
The head
Properties a plenty
Railway stations too
All the amenities
Totted up to a fair few.
His life started on the
Old Kent road
Was
Ended in Mayfair
Community chest
Was set up for all
So challenge me if you dare.
The police investigated
This man of wealth and property
He Left his legacy  a family game
He Called it monopoly
They found his killer
His younger brother bill
He’s gone straight to jail
For a life in Pentonville

Un vischio, fin dall'infanzia sospeso grappolo
di fede e di pruina sul tuo lavandino
e sullo specchio ovale ch'ora adombrano
i tuoi ricci bergére fra santini e ritratti
di ragazzi infilati un po' alla svelta
nella cornice, una caraffa vuota,
bicchierini di cenere e di bucce,
le luci di Mayfair, poi a un crocicchio
le anime, le bottiglie che non seppero aprirsi,
non più guerra né pace, il tardo frullo
di un piccione incapace di seguirti
sui gradini automatici che ti slittano in giù….

Un vischio, fin dall'infanzia sospeso grappolo
di fede e di pruina sul tuo lavandino
e sullo specchio ovale ch'ora adombrano
i tuoi ricci bergére fra santini e ritratti
di ragazzi infilati un po' alla svelta
nella cornice, una caraffa vuota,
bicchierini di cenere e di bucce,
le luci di Mayfair, poi a un crocicchio
le anime, le bottiglie che non seppero aprirsi,
non più guerra né pace, il tardo frullo
di un piccione incapace di seguirti
sui gradini automatici che ti slittano in giù….