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E. Montale, Men who turn

Maybe I'll be prosecuted for breach of copyright, although I think he would have laughed taste ...

Sometimes I feel like I read minds (and the present subjunctive is not a mistake) so I'm missing men.

Dedicated to those who know - I do not know - I.

probably
you are no longer who you were
and rightly so be it.
properly scoured the sand paper
us and each line gets thinner.
Yet something was written
on the sheets of our lives.
is exaggerating it against that standard,
hieroglyphic form a larger tiara
you dazzled.
no longer appeared from the door
months a year or seabed algae,
divers muddy rapids
to make sense of anything. Come down
on the stairs of the temples of Mercury automatic
between corpses mask
you the only living
and you do not ask
if he was cheating, was chosen, was communication
and which of us was the center
which pulls the bow from the booth.
Do not ask me either. I am the one
that has seen a moment and that is enough
to walkers lined up as now
happens to us if we are still alive
or believe it was a hoax. This sled.

(Eugenio Montale, Vivid II)

Songwriter

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guitar out of tune, genetically modified corn and Naked Gun ...

Photo by Tina M oducts (my beloved Tinisima ...)



We were tired because of the feathers keep
labels
of trash from third
hopefully last
republic media.
We c'infrangemmo
Let us indeed the mighty

and disarmed at the sound of the bells of Girgenti
or Caminate Rocca.


shadow of aberrant mode
obtuse and compliance
dell'anticonformismo
and its plastirivolte.
So predictable and blasphemous
to regret the savory
anarchy of the people and the holy ignorance
grandmothers.


we described
with lavish artistry
the bell'andare
for what seemed forever
and believe in

to take off - with a view a goal? -
aphasic our hope.

Just born.

We aborted
room gestation
the possessive pronoun
the first, third
people
the AIS imposture of history.

Our name you
there spitting
and you can easily
as to who is right
and shoot into an alibi

a form coiffed
of which traces remain.


We were tired because of the impotence of teachers
stuttering
bulimic
acquiescence to the verb of existence.

I am not who I was.
We are not.
Current of former friends
is pitiful
plethora of disheartened souls
looking barren
and hysterical
someone
or at least something.

Our blood
seed has been sown in coitus
uncertain
shadow of progress
long continuance online
download happiness
free
- release, please! -
that all the cheap
no fruit
immune
impunity
enjoy it!

Our seed
blood has been shed
for us and for all
anything in forgiveness
cloned nth
impotence
joyfully
imploded in the cacophony nonsense
whole existence.
But we grew tired

because of useless feathers
ever became wings.
and scratching
twitter coy
in cubicule comfortable
of these hives

ergonomic spaces of virtual worlds.


taught the children - pathetic pride -
doubting the swamp
and morchiosa
fathers
the silent revolt and defeat

mothers.

A.

Songwriter

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me on your little break in the light that scatters


the reflection of a day in often dense and smooth ruffled green


melts

now my every moment

I quivered in the breath and slow down to the
premises of my summer evenings the park
those few things that remain on our mattress
lying on the ground next to the terrace on the third floor of
via Marco Polo speaks
but my voice is fast
Tarlati blue smoke
I look at you then say - I like that
wrinkle (in a whisper)
- which one?
- the one that comes when you smile ...

in marine scent up the stairs: April
me rummages
remove bile and infests a forest far

profiles clear his head in innocence
unconsciousness port
honest sigh
subtle textures in which light remains engraved

only trace of an avenue of cypress trees and an expanse of open
passes over a distance of vineyards and olive groves

Eyes blacks who laughs and you
that cuts the nets.

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[since I read Jung I feel the sewage into the chest]

since I read Jung
I feel
of slurry into the chest

- not what I said?

a moment, in units of Misfortune

perfect way to balance a defect in
thickens and then to think how many promises

eaten by worms in the body, instead
we are flying to the last temple
reached on steps carefully moved
as I told
footprint footprint on

a complaint, is that shit coming back ...

where it stands dissolved and the caress of empty
chimes?
talk all night if disposed of in the eddies of the heavenly saints


if I close my eyes it's you that I look

dumb and helpless ... I was the seamstress or

(with an escort of good weather
in the eye of each needle) if torn

but rest in a lake of lava
sheets with the arms

- is that I have only ever written love poems, for that matter


lever
hands from the face of only premises that are pending

ray sky from a sheet of
paper and all sorts of vision
draw a house on the hill with the garden
and a seaport without people

- Mature age I do not want me to play ...


that cardboard cutout clouds