Sunday 16 February 2014

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

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

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

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  

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.

 I relent,

No longer,
Or much less then,
A man.


Thursday 4 July 2013

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 

Saturday 4 December 2010

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.


Thursday 21 October 2010

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.