panico

Ed un sabato mattina
ti trovi a pensare
quanto sarebbe teatrale
tagliarti le vene nella vasca
del bagno dei cattolici suoceri.
Il sangue a intaccare
il cazzo di lilla ridondante,
sfinente
degli asciugamani
le piastrelle
le tendine
i saponi.
Con la porta chiusa a chiave
marcirei per ore
prima che
con la loro discrezione
qualcuno sfondi la porta.

Feeling like Bukowski

You don't know how boring it is

to sit down at a table

listening to conversations about the new watch

of Patek Philippe,

about how to advertise on Vogue,

about bank accounts...

I wish I was brave enough

to get so pissed to lose my senses,

vomit all my rage on those white shirts

and then

slowly

fade

away...

I wish I was crazy enough to get undressed,

climb up the table

and yell to these people

that money buys everything but no salvation,

that we all live in the same hell....

But I am just sitting down at this table

writing these not really inspired lines,

downing my fifth glass

of excellent rosé wine,

getting silently drunk...

And it feels good

being wrapped by the patina

of intoxication,

oh God if it feels good

despite all the useless chatting.