Declaration - a paroxysm

While I enter you

There are two of you
I cannot understand,
Or maybe three.

 

Your eyes that show

Their back to me as
Guarding thick curtains,

 

The watchful silence that

Makes the rim,
That of your brown
Eye-lashes whimper,

And the mechanical rhythm

Of your voiceless blows
In and out, mourning hoofs
Of a train in slow
Motion.

 

Rust rests

On my hands,
Russet patches,
Bloodless gashes
On my wrists,
The wrinkles of
Our love,
The stains of
My submission.

 

I wish I could break

You into two.
An easy snap, sharp
And wooden,
The same way
When chopsticks
Slip through
My fingers, and
Bend on
Your pristine egg white
Paper-like ceramic
Plate, by the little
Sheer push, the pulsing
Flickers of my will, till
They, inanimate
Faultless  twigs,
Have no use.

Like my surplice is

To you. Stains-full
And fault-full.

 

They could not even

Pinch the bits that is left
Of me from inside
You.

 

They would not make sure

That anything is left of me
In you.

 

They lay, motionless, 

Next to your china balls,
Your tea-set
And pride. You have
Ornamental gimmicks,
I am not a
Festered ride.

 

Please let’s take

A different train,
Let us stop
At different
Stations.

 

If I am forced,

I really can be like
The stranger,
Wrap myself in
Darkness and
See you off, towards
The depth of a
Thick forest.

I could let you

Smell the ground,
Merciless, the soil
That all forgives.
You would need
More than a clay spoon
To dig yourself out
Of the mudded
Spot for you
I already had long  
Reserved.
 

But you are in luck

Today, I have
Already rot.
My legs putrefy
Under the sun’s grot
And I listen to
The grounding sound
Of a steel
That hoofs, hoofs,
The rounds
Of a vicious loop.

 

And under your roof

I am nothing more than
A beggar. My hands
Have now black patches
After I enter you, aloof.  
There are too many
Of me in you,
Your womb is filled
With gushes.

 

 Legless and pointless

To the next riff I swim.

Thread-like

 I relent,

No longer,

Or much less then,
A man.

 

Love ashtray

Dust whimpers away

Into clouds,

Some stays untouched

On his mouth.

Coal has little lust

On his tongue

She shares, atypical,

Orangy colours

Of his lips.

Her kiss is unlike mandarin

It has a little twist,

It reeks.

From their throats

Gushes out

A un-mouthful dryness

Invisible ashes,

Fumes of boiling pots

Stain their role-play, physical,

With a grey blot.

A black candy rots,

Toothless, buckles

Their love knot.

Cigarette dandies,

Both say

They cannot stop.

The lovers’ old song

Melts, away,

Raucous whispers,

Of foggy snorts

Rest in a pocketed 

Ashtray.

Confession aimable in English and French (on chorea huntington )-[work in progress]

It hurts so bad
This impotence of mine
That does not go away
And I look to him,
At him that one day
The wind will blow 
As autumn leaves astray
Amongst tatters of sanity.

A remembrance of winters,

Passed, now darkness.
My loves
His young days.

What if it were all unreality.
But it hurts so bad
This impotence of mine
That won’t but give you away.

O santi miei
Can’t you look down here
At the rubbish bins

Full of musty dreams,
Abandoned skyscrapers
Lovers’ exacerbated love
Down come the tears,

As shutters roll down
On our faces, blemished.
This Impotence of ours
It cannot be avenged.
Down, with folded hands
At an altar of pagan gods
I ask for an armistice
With humility.

And I see that little
Escapes this hypocrisy
Like on a water stream
Seconds disembark,
Carry on and alas!
While you, my love
You stagger
With no loop nor sail
So little you see
Of the front, a mirage
A lighthouse teases
At no avail that very little

Left of your reality.

Impotence of mine
Innocence of yours

So angry are these hands

Little can they embrace
Little can they defy
Little can they shore up.

Heavy load, powerful

And  wrong.

Pas de cloches, pas de bagues

Pas d’émbraces passionnés

C’est le revière

De la morgue vivante

Qui  nous a fermé

Si forte cette impuissance

A moi  qui se coule

Dans la lumière, gênée.

Peux-je faire

Un demi-tour et m’en aller ?

Monstre a toi grimaçant

Etranger, déforme

Ta bouches n’a que des

Graines de sable,

Et de cette mémoires-la

Et de ce qui a eté

And petit a peu s’en y va

Il n’y reste que cette aimable

Confession à moi, brulée. 

Confession aimable in Italian and French (on chorea huntington )-[work in progress]

Fa cosi male

Quest’ impotenza mia

Che non se ne va

E guardo a lui

A colui che  un giorno

il vento spazzera’

Come le foglie

Minuzze la sua sanita’

 Un ricordo d’inverni passati

Ora oscurita’.

Amori miei

Giovinezze sue.

Come vorrei che fosse

Tutto un’irrealta’.

Ma fa  propio cosi’ male

Quest’ impotenza mia

Che non cedera’,

O santi miei

Ma guardate qui giu’

Nella spazzutura

Di sogni arruginiti,

Grattaceli abbandonati

Amanti esarceberati

E vengono giu’ e giu’

Le lacrime, tapparelle

Sui nostri visi sfregiati.

Impotenza nostra

Che non riscattera’

Con le mani giunte

Davanti all’altare

Di dei pagani

Chiedo armistizi

Con umilta’.

E vedo che poco

Sfugge  a quest’ipocrisia

Come su un torrente

I secondi sbarcano

Il momento evvia!

Quando amore mio

Tu barcolli

Senza anza e senza vela

Quel poco che vedi

Il fronte, un mirraggio

Il faro scherza con

Il poco, restata la tua realta’.

Impotenza mia

Innocenza tua

Arrabbiate sono le mie mani

Che non abbracciano

Che non sfidano

Che poco sostengono

Il bastone troppo potente

Il bastone troppo pesante.

Pas de cloches, pas de bagues

Pas d’émbraces passionnés

C’est le revière

De la morgue vivante

Qui  nous a fermé

Si forte cette impuissance

A moi  qui se coule

Dans la lumière, gêné.

Peux-je faire

Un demi-tour et m’en aller ?

Monstre a toi grimaçant

Etranger, déforme

Ta bouches n’a que des

Graines de sable,

Et de cette mémoires-la

Et de ce qui a eté

and petit a peu s’en y va

Il n’y reste que cette aimable

Confession à moi, brulée.

.

White Roses

No faith is to be redeemed

When a smile is the only prize.

Nothing to be said.

This swallows it, this distance

Between you and I.

Our hands might meet

In prayers.

It is not the lovers' touch,

It is the whiteness

that can’t forgive.

Nothing to be heard.

This repels it, this silence

Between you and I.

Future, and one’s own dreams

Like iced cubes on clay cradles,

They melt into an hint of talc.

It is the petals, selfish,

That can’t foresee…

Nothing to be acted upon.    

This hovers over it, this audience

Between you and I.

No faith is left on the stage,

It is a black box, theatre of emotions.

Little space for a sequel.

Nothing to be done by.

This delivers it, no consilience

Between you and I.  

White roses and their petals smile

And say their goodbyes,

The only prize.

The Idle talker

Winter appals

Him or… her

Through the crispy air

The idle talker walks

With bound feet

And limping hands.

A baggage of plastic thoughts

Between the legs.

The idle talker grins and grins

When the sky is dim and

The sun does not limn.

At the local pub

The idle talker

Speaks, sips

Through the smoke

And reams

Of purple chairs,

Through a dried mouth

Of an evergreen

Like tin ware.

Handcuffed to

The buttocks of slim seats,

The voice talks, talks, and talks.

And to the winds

At whim with no tunes

It even sings, sings and sings.

The idle talker has not dreams

Nor plans- its thoughts are done

In the murky élan

Of natters.

The idle talker

Has no wishes of women,

Nor of men,

No real joys from either of them.

The idle talker smiles

At the sun and the candlelight

Of a TV screen,

Collects plastic bags and

Bottle and eggs

With an artificial,

Invisible Net.

The idle talker’s smiles

Itch the skin

Of the Other, who

Sullen and thrift buys

It’s words,

Words, words, words, words…

Oh my lord!

They travel light,

Balloons rest only

In the heights,

Amid hairy kites halted in mid air.

The idle talker does not drink

Tea, does not lick milk.

The idle talker

Does not even rhyme nor mime.

A lover’s hiss,

A deathbed wish,

A football funs’ scream,

A heartbroken fist and

The razzamatazz of

Weary housewives

A hasty stroke,

An indelible papery wrinkle

A sigh, a coo or a boo…

A sneeze, a sneeze, a sneeze…

Winter appals

him or… her.

Globally Warmed Ageing

I am a late autumn, I let wasps fly

I let butterflies sigh, under the glass ball

Of iced candles. November is a killer,

The morning darkness wraps me

And tries to mummify me, a blackbird forced

To stare at its temple. Neither gold nor dust. 

The wind could not slay leaves

This year; a confused tree decided

To give shelter to a black timid

Butterfly. The moonlight is murderous.

It reveals only the eerie whiff of

A backdoor cat who, like a cynical criminal,

Slips into the nearest barn of stars to steal

Their shadows. Winter is an unusual lover,

He brings me sun. He brings me warmth,

My skin unfolds like a burning leaf

By the wind’s hair. His voice smells

Like the leaves of a dried wind. I open

 My mouth I blaze. I part my legs

I freeze. His moustache prickles

Unapologetic, unasked for.

Black butterfly! In the barn

You gush through the alarmed

Voices, the raising hands of the tree.

Do not trust the accomplice moon!

It is artificial, it does not

Belong to the sky. It tells lies.

 It batters the fly in a temple

Of sly darkness. When you die,

 November will resign, it has

Already killed the season

Of many, while this winter,

I am not a lonely leaf in the barn,

Where the perplexed tree oversees…

Summer is perfected.