40 pills 
saved you.
Will they 
save me?
Take me out 
of this spiral?
Maybe
I need less.
Never expel them.
Neve come back.

all that jazz

che tutto quest'odio ti farà soffocare.

e questo non è il primo concerto jazz

durante il quale 

il cuore fa male 

e manca il respiro 

e la gola è secca.

in cui sogni un altrove.

che succede?

sta finendo la poesia?

stanno scivolando via le parole

come la sabbia in una clessidra?

in hampstead heath

The smell of fresh peppermint.

I sit down looking for a refuge, wishing to savour the last words of this tale of blindness. The warm liquid soothes my soul, it melts the rime nestled on my cheeks and fingertips.

Winter has come.

I open my treasure, I leaf through its pages but my attention is soon diverted by the world around me. My mind is trapped. It is here that our love was born, in this enchanted park, it is here I thought, for the first time in my life, “he is the one”, while, lying on the grass we hugged each other for hours, kissed by the lukewarm sun of October. It is here I understood it was not the umpteenth mirage, while I was biting a slice of coconut cake , speaking of bears and weird wood creatures.

And here I am again, the same odour of fresh peppermint and you crowding my thoughts even from miles away, fighting with all my worries to be my main preoccupation, and managing it easily. It is a Thursday afternoon, it is pitch black, it is raining light over a London too superficial to suffer the absence of you. My heart is beating fast, the tea warms up my hand and the thought of you hits my heart like a hammer.

aceptad mi silencio: lo mejor de mi

il cuore una poltiglia. 

raggi x.

 tornare a prima del coltello,

a prima dell'amore.

Euterpe 3

è uscita Euterpe numero tre...

Il numero a tema

“Metamorfosi, trasformazioni e travestimenti: la doppiezza dell’essere”

raccoglie poesie, racconti, saggi, recensioni, interviste ed altri testi critici, oltre a varie segnalazioni.

ecco a voi il link!

http://rivista-euterpe.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/e-uscita-euterpe-n3.html

on art

Sometimes I wonder why I am doing all this.

Wouldn't it be better just waking up in a forest, stretching out and create and create and create, just for the sake of it?

What is it all this promotion for and readings and flights taken and e-mails sent and calls made? What is the sense of it? What for?

Would it all have more sense if it took me further, somewhere better, somewhere where my name has a sort of importance?

What does importance exactly mean?

And when is somebody really an artist? Does the mere fact of producing a piece of art make you an artist even if you don't share it, you don't present it to an audience?

When does somebody start to be a poet and not just somebody throwing ink on pages?

Am I questioning my being a writer just because I lack fame?

Is it fame what makes the difference?

I am thinking and re-thinking about that and I cannot really reach any conclusion this morning, this morning in which I woke up and the only thing I desired was sleeping among your arms...I am questioning it when this flight is taking me away from you, another time.

And at the same time, even if often I cannot find the motivation of all this, I know I have to do it , I know my essence would not be the same without this almost vain expenditure of energy...

and I find myself caught in this whirl of doubt and uncertainty, once anew.

Un perro descalzo

He sentido que es inùtil que hablemos.

INUTILE.

Perché c'è un fruscio di sottofondo che perdura

che non lascia tregua.

Tu eri il posto dove andavo quando c'era bisogno di tregua.

Hai cambiato la maschera.

Un pitido sin fin.

Un aullido.

Un perro descalzo.

Ardor machacado.

Stavo svenendo e mi facevano male le orecchie e il cuore.

Che poi che sarà mai?

Che credo nella sinteticità.

E nella strega dai mille suoni e i suoi serpenti.