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Just to be by you |
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Now I have something mine: your beautiful belly button north cardinal point of the primordial desire icon of the rebel pleasure eye of your skin lash-less scoundrel with a zucchini*-shaped cap hostel or five-star hotel skipping small bean juicy little diamond of the eros over the sugary gore. *courgette |
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| The kiss coming from your finger is an alien signal. emotion of the first contact. wonder. want for feel. amazement. want for all. |
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You are like the marble around the well turning and turning but never falling into the hole where pigeons drink. even the finger pushing it you are and six times I love you love you again and would love you in rhyming rimes. that sweet time of the marble glass iris in the round can come back and it will. [Note by the translator] = The poet is referring to a child’s play common in Venice, his town. Each child has his own personal marble, which should be pushed along a well border with two fingers without falling into the hole where pigeons always go and drink rainwater. These holes are usually also full of rubbish and if the marble falls in there, the owner has to take it out with his own hands. |
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Time flows through river sluices we were there abstracted and your and my face were winter portraits facing west while my tachycardiac heart and the back of your hands tingled in vocative consonances. in boundless rooms in mossy halls in crumbling holes does not lie feeling but its contemplation. lyric intuition pure crocean* intuition. rebel inspiration originating beautiful but lonely words lonely words of sun. * Benedetto Croce (1866-1952), Italian philosopher. |
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| Let the dusk swallow the milk-white clouds move to the mirror so that you are reflected in the orange disc of the day falling asleep. from here I will see you like afrodite like a divine vision taking my breath away. I will breathe in deeply in order not to die I will pray the exhausted sun to get away from his sleep thus I will be adoring you in a never-ending sunset. |
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To you sleeping beside me A caress expected in the dark made the room a moonlight night for a while. turn away so that you can’t hear me: the sky is recalling tears rousing ghosts sleeping in my prisons behind saline water bars harder than steel. is it just the beginning? just the beginning. in the woods hanging in your eyes filled with blue consternation I’m afraid an immutable farewell immutable winter dwells. - good night - |
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| Here all begins Here all begins. the comings and goings of faint sunsets and of dark-sick sunrises mark my children’s age. living is like recovering always: waiting is the one remedy to madness. or is like a pawnshop where they lend you one third of good, and every six months you renew your heart for a helpless smile. I realise I’m growing old by settled loans, by paid and unpaid bills by higher and higher dental expenses by car and boiler wear and tear by scrape and win lottery useless cards by evenings in web seeking in the virtual the real. I still trust you Leopardi, but no more the vigour of the past memory is a piteous curse timeless without dimensions, melancholy gave her chair to the teacher of all teachers: the instant. on him I depend, from him I learn now... the friendly art. |
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In a natural contrary In a natural contrary is a river reversed from ocean to source: it flows down. nor of sweet, nor of salted water is its way not half-blood water but biologic swill where even an eel, in the natural contrary, spinster and misanthrope for choice would crave descent. beyond all intentions I observe you with caudal fin of broad glory: you swim by gills of less visible pain: you breath. from source to ocean : you rise. |
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| It's a matter of taking stocks, you said to stun even the sacrosanct left. coffee with milk was and is bitter, and tea with milk too and there is a reason: we do not put sugar. but among one thousand and one different conclusions our sexes have an absolute value certainly not that past cuckolding cherishing in orgasm a new sunrise. |
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It was ashes It was ashes even before flaming that understanding meditated as undying. You had veiled intentions trunks because, flat emotions frail sliding matches. with your head bowed waiting for ashes you insist on setting fire to tomorrow incombustible as today. And from the dormitory quarter, where at night you lay my sprawled body insomnia dreariness comes up and the suspicion that speech opposes, defeated, to nothingness. planting oneself in sexless grounds provokes hardly visible burns. You could, reasoning, call them: stratified solitudes. they form oblique guidelines like indifferent glances. |
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I’ve never loved! I – have – never – loved – anyone! From the cirrus at the first floor I descended, as damned soul to the basement, accompanied by a Virgilio in skirt met at the station one night in august. is hell the right punishment to the unjust (or bonus) to sweet idleness? I’ve never loved! I – have – never – loved – anyone! wells, your black eyes, abysses ravines, but woman’s gifts; prizes I wish I could always have for my career as stubborn idler. do you know my interest in you is there under the goblet your lightly drawn belly? in your breast just glimpsed? I am not talking about love let’s leave that to poets but about flesh and passion about repeated orgasms about animal heats and sweaty skins about liquids dried on sheets. and I do not bag pardon for my lust but robust loins. |
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| Of your darkness I have but a flash: I rang you did not answer. |
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| High in the sky I am holding out an hollow thought, ignoring the rowdy sun. and I am waiting for dread to cease when the humble moon climbs. |
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Ah Wagner! I am moving as I can, in this hell! memory is abandoning it day after day! ah wagner! I am moving as I can, in this hell: among traps and violin chords among brass and tricks covered with roses I am following the memory abandoning it. it is the same story without story I am trying a non-existing reason: death, her death, unavoidable life, my life, avoidable. ah wagner! |
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(28 July 1996) This is a sourish coloured day with aluminium grey sound tasting deaf rain recycled from a far storm does not ask for my permission to join my birthday: no harm done. I have not prepared any cake. translated in English by Sandra Michelacci |
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| Ahora tengo algo mío: tu hermoso ombligo punto cardinal del norte del deseo primordial icono del placer rebelde ojo de tu piel bribón sin pestañas con una forma de zucchini que tapa hostería o hotel de cinco estrellas pequeño frijol saltarín pequeño diamante jugoso del eros sobre la corneada azucarada. |
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| Твоих
пальцев
прикосновение
- Непонятное ощущение. Возбуждение при первом контакте Чудо. Чувство желания. Изумление. Его понимание. |
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(28 Июль 1996) Этот кисло окрашенный день, С алюминевым серым звучанием Испытывающим беззвучие… Дождь, пришедший с далекой бурей Не спрашивает моего разрешения День рождения мой посетить: Нет урона. Hо так же нет торта. translated in Russian by Victoria Kusnetsova |
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| Ajunge sa spui ca te scufunzi poate restul lumii se inalta. cu tine traiesc in pas de dans de aici de la frontiera care incepe la hanul cu postalioane unde lumea pare nesfarsita si apele sarate ale lagunei nu vad sa scalde nici una din frumoasele tale insule. nu-ti pronunt numele nu-ti scriu numele dar ma gandesc la tine si te deplang si uneori te plang. translated by Angi Doicescu-Ciurea |
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