Within Nature

Eternity of loss in a mask carved in the
rock the scorning mouth that does not say
the words that i would like to hear.
A name of gold written on this oblivious
treachery when an hand should seek
to grasp the fingers coming out
of the earth.
The soil is filled with our blood, a
head falls down my neck i look into those
eyes which are supposed to be mine but
i don't acknowledge the very thoughts i see
in them.
Hack in two a body made of bark and send
it to the fire... where it will burn with you
in joy or in despair.

Youth gone

Staying alive to watch the fire burn in fear,
hopelessness of just a blinded mind like a fig,
to know that our turn here was but just a gig,
to hear the voice but be deaf like an empty ear

gigantic and full of sorrow; i bend over
pick up a stone and stay alone, tomorrow
walks by like a possessed man in fever,
over his head the bridge of time curved like a

bow throws around the colours of madness,
in grief and in distress
i hear the echo of my youth
crying North and South

wailing of a teethless mouth.







By the shore

Body of clay
standing on the horizon flat and blue
to walk on a flat line
tightrope walker without feet.
We shall be just floating

above the rounded sea,
with the mermaids singing
and the loud voice of the waves
crying into my ears of shells.
Our ankles in the sand

to climb the blue wall of the sky
and to wave from far away to the ships;
just tell them to come in
safely and huge
forests of poles.

Deep into the sea deep sky, we could swim
like gulls without minds to worry,
free from grief or sorrow
we would be mirrors, sheer and blue,
floating into the breeze.


















Dreaming by the roadside

To lay by the side of the road barefoot,
like prodigals without wings
to stay alive in death
so put out the fire in your head, and sleep.

To lay by the side of the road,
with an empty head, to watch the clouds
pass by over there
above the graceful hills undulating slowly.

To lay there, still, becalmed,
to breath the fresh air of the grass,
hearing the buzzing flies
and watching the flood of dreams in your head.

To lay by the side of the road barefoot,
to think of time passed, lost friends,
mixing hope and regret, pain and joy,
with just the white clouds overhead,

and only waiting for the stars to show up.




















The landscape of the flesh

Heart lost for love and not for grief,
magic of the desert wrists, the coming
of the new born child from his womb
of sand, he dwells among the rocks.

The despair on the face in tears,
to see but not to care for dying
on this horizon of flesh is to gain
eternity in a second before vanishing.

I wish i could touch this face
made of glass more than skin,
the transparency of despair,
calvary on the fingertips of light.

Down into the well of sorrow and of grace,
i see you coming out from the blackhole
of this night in the light of my bedside lamp,
unfolding like those white sheets, slowly

uncovering my thighs and my chest like foam,
a tide, the unfolding spit of the sea.



















Statues

The whiteness of the clouds
in my long haunted belly
the spell on which tears me apart
and ripped open i pour out with wild grins.

The curse of thought should be a blessing,
on this skinned ground i dream the lonely
heart, being full up to the rim with my blood
i try again to be.

To regret is to undo the knitted universe,
the thread of which has drawn us together
the heat of which has made us madmen
mad with joy, dolls of mud and clay

our aim is the furnace where we shall
burn and harden and become
statues of brass, indestructibles,
free and wild, gilded and steady

as reeds waving on the surface of a pond.




















The grave is in the house

Growing sore by the house of the dead,
the opening and closing of a grave,
the walker passing by, wasting time,
spent away hours in daydreams.

Walking the house of the grave,
stone ravens fixing, with dark eyes,
my dark soul in a dark life,
the burden of the days on my weary shoulders.

The house of the dead overflows with my screams,
shouting and crying of mourners,
grey and white ghosts carrying the coffin
where i can see the face of my father, livid.

I can hear him talk to me, in the corridors
of my mind, he takes a statue off the ground
and stares intensly at it, like in thrall,
then he looks back at me, i am in thrall too.

I shall die soon of a long disease,
by the house of the dead, is shall
waste time walking my own grave, while
falling leaves of invisible trees make a wreath by my side.

















Gospels

Trueness of the grave in the bloodrunning heart
echo my solitude of a mute,
under the gospel tree i shall wait my future
longing for undoing the clouds in clusters.

After breaking the lock we should tell
the prayer of a disaster yet to come,
we have mated with strange mammals,
we have turned then into insects,

we have been told the truth of thinking
to become skeletons from the past
is to stay forever on the square of a face
pale with a joy mixed with despair or fear.

The country that we're building is made
with shreds of beings, skin, flesh,
the unweaving of the rope of the brain,
the dreaming of the book of souls

is where, brothers, we will eat each other's
flesh, and die from the hate in our hearts.



















Delirium

The house is built on skin.
To rub the sky against my window pane
is to undo the ties of the clouds,
i sleep with mirrors on my eyes.

To dream the worldly world
grass and dew, the freshness of the waves,
clasping hands with the sand
dunes moving very slowly on the shore.

I am in bed, figures coming out of the walls
look down at me, faces painted on the ceiling,
i try to see through my eyelids
what is going on? i feel chained

to my bed, i can't move. On my doorstep
i hear a growling dog. The night unfolds.
I am still lying in bed, untouched, the morning
can come back and take me by the hand,

i don't know where to go.




















Recollection

The crowd is in the street,
i am walking beside you, cars are passing by,
yet, i am alone,
through the windows of my brain i can see your shape.

Far away, little girl, you're lost.
You go along, your hand on your flank,
in restrain, your voice is soft.
The street is filled up to the brim,

faces everywhere, shining like suns,
they are too bright for me, i can' see you.
I paint you, over and over,
Yellow, blue, red, plaster for the head.

A figure coming out of nowhere
appears, it is not you, it is your clone
in plaster and in paint,
it is your second self, more solid than the real one,

yet so frail, it could crumble at any time,
between my hands.



















His corpse

In the box of the dead sea, i put my head in a cage.
To echo the cry of the wound, the madness,
and the child in rage,
is to lie in the deep sad sea in pain and in distress.

Petals of the flesh that can bear no scar,
nor the skin on eyes can hold to be sewed in tar,
sockets which like eggs will hatch images of our death
i will make with your hair a deathlike wreath

and put it on your grave. Unravel the roads,
where figures off funerals will raise and walk,
faces like muzzles of wolves and toads,
bodies dipped deep in chalk

resemble cadavers,
and mummies of fathers.
























A song (to Sophie)

To walk the solemn sea,
to fly in the desert,
to be able to see
what we should but regret.

To hear the bells, they toll
a strange sound to my ears,
and where our bodies roll
we will but live so near.

The grave is in my head
a curious place to dwell,
the books that i have read
have thrown on me a spell,

the orchard is full green,
i lay with you my love,
and can you feel the spleen
watching the clouds above?

The secret that we share
is made of flesh, and light,
it is precious and rare
like stars, lost in this night.

















The Dragon is in the Cave

In the first birth of the spirited man
i sat silent under the grass of the sky
to bear witness the dying of the sphinx
like a long hearted widow of the sun.

In colours of madness i see the sea in fury
hurry the wind to the land of doom
where ecstasy of death i fill up my cup
with the blood of my wound in the palm.

The bone of the eye should be hollow and wide
so we could fill it up with fancy faces
and cover up our brain with a black shroud,
so that like the wise man in his cave

we would fight the dragon of our mind,
and with wings on our back fly up to the sky,
wings made of muscles and sinews would carry
us through the vastness of our sleep

up to the land of dreams which no longer come true.
Then, under the lampshade of an ancient hunger,
we would stay still under the raven's yellow eye,
his beak holding us above the open mouth of the Dead.
















The shadows

I came near the brook
where shadows were drinking water, bent over,
their open mouths sucking the sheer liquid
off its very soft surface.

Eyes bright as stars were shining under
the dark hoods of their heads,
and i could see the ribs sticking
out of their hollow bodies;

their flesh holding on no spine though,
and i heard no words from their dried mouths
yet telepathic cries came through my brain,
like ancient voices rising up from the past.

As i came near the brook
i saw ghostly figures of my life, yet
more vivid that my pale existence itself,
 no birds were in the trees, and no wind blew in their leaves.

And after drinking, the shadows raised their heads,
 and started howling,
 their voices shooting off through
the night like invisibles arrows of despair.


The bony dice


My bones a hull,
rigid to hold
a hollow skull
a man too bold.

Pieces of skin,
a wound to part
closed and akin
i depart

from my body
thrown as a dice
like a landscape
drawn in ice.

The mouth and the sex

An eye closed to see inside the sexus,
a heart beating in my head,
should i hold this shadow, lapsus
of my own body, and instead

of parting off the ground,
to go and circle in a round
the very center of a circle,
waiting for a miracle.

The sand is pouring from the wall,
sentry of an illusory jail
i roll off on a iron rail
down to the grave, and i recall

that i should dig this earth, to find
within my past an image stiff and dry,
like a moment left over in my mind,
my mouth torned in a cry.

Brancusi's head

A shape is clinging to a wall
standing and walking there upright,
so, thus to be a reflection,
cut off from the open glass

is not untie the knots of space
to open up an horizon
flat as a head on a pillow
breathing like piece of bronze.

To be statue and thus to shine,
square as arms shot above us
they draw a house into the void
where we only dwell in thoughts.

So we should dream our inner worlds,
so we should live inside those rooms,
filled up with portraits made of gold
where the solitudes unfold.

Like in love

To walk the sun and to define
the forgetfulness of the past
the realm of thought is like to last
in the lasting of a design.

So, the freedom of a gesture
should not impede the loneliness
to be like a lonely vulture
in time of less.

I go around, the streets are dead,
the only path that i should tread
should be to paint the sky in gold
or tell again poems once told;

to paint your body in full red,
to paint your eyes in green and blue
to say verses that should be said
in just one hue;

to be tender like a lover
and be unfair like a mirror
is to mask the lonely horror
of the sweetness we uncover.

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