NeptunianPoetryMaker
London-based Italian poet and translator. After living and working in Russia for a year, I decided to move to London where I started writing my poems in English to make them comprehensible to a wider audience, and attending different poetry and open mic events. Here is where the magic started...
Harmony in a couple is not breakfast in bed
Or flowers as the first thing handled in the morning,
But farting at the same tempo
Just before awakening.
No sheep to count when bedtime comes,
But my teeth biting your *******
Til I bleed you to sleep,
Half of my lips left to mark
This flesh forever.
If you ****** me as much as I wanted
The next dlr stop before Bank in my head
Would be renamed SHAGWELL.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
If I slit your throat on the peak of our relationship’s winter
The cut would unleash flocks of swans and swallows
My hands around your neck instead, stained by drops of void
Would manage to make scars out of nothingness.
Desperate, I might keep cutting through – inventive surgeon,
Seeking the source from where your rivers flood.
If your skin turned into mirror you would reflect
All the barren fields I hold inside
And if I tried to breath out a summer you would still be
A country cold and without heating, whose winters
Unfold slowly as petals and whose paths interweave
With lost rays of sunshine gone chilly.
You bared the trees yourself, one by one,
Suckling out each drop of chlorophyll from branches sharp and sick.
Poisoned the root and soil. Left the ground unspoken. Undertook
A silent treatment.
Beaks and shrieks, wanting to come out, peck hard
The back of your eyes. Beneath your capillary carpets
Lies the fear to let go, your sleep unwise
Creates new monsters with each and every snore.
I can distinctly see my voice disfiguring your face
With an axe of sound – and yet the lake of your eye, firm and clear,
Doesn’t fade out in circles. Deaf to the echoes, split into halves
Your skull doesn’t speak up.
If I cut your throat once more, the void dropping out, kissing my hands
Would never leave me. If I, armed as a knight, uncovered
Your wake and finally found you
You might never be lonely again.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert.
A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns
at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows.
The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow,
purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of
unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps
and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns
to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks
to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble.
The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth
exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames
and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit
leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them
in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers
and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws.
Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses.
It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around
played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light
and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Computer screen pulsating
With a blue feeling of vulnerability.
There is a death in the hours wasted
Cast in the trashbin outside existence.
The soon to be lost addresses you
From afar like an old childhood friend.
Computer screen claiming
To know where’s your place of belonging,
An alienation parasite feeds on
The frontal lobes of your brain.
The soon to be lost is sweet and loving
Prepares for you shelters from life.
Computer screen deforming features
Claiming to know, to care deeply
Unloading promises, nurturing futures,
A basic means against routine and apathy.
The soon to be lost is aggressive,
Fighting is futile!
Computer screen derailing
The sight into a state of numbness.
Simple! Easy! Fast! It’s done!
Efficiency by the bucket-load.
The soon to be lost is scary,
Corroding from within all possibilities.
Computer screen misleading eyes
With a bleak mist of wonder
Only the oracles can keep asking questions
Or googling answers.
The soon to be lost, a warning
The internal walls – collapsing.
Computer screen, devastating
Disease for the billions to come
No survivors permitted! A crisis’ peak!
Men hung themselves to find peace.
The soon to be lost is weird and tactless.
Are you burning?
If your brain’s not on fire
You’re not burning enough.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
Wallow, wallow, wallow
Until the first cracks
Show on your body.
Bees on lips
And whales in your woods
Make your life uneasy.
You manage to overdo the thinking
Which makes you unhappy
Deaf and blind
Yet even more beautiful.
The coffin of your closest relative
Never asked you anything
But you keep on justifying
Every little detail of your past.
Now you exhale yourself
On a wild bouquet of dandelions.
Keep still
For a moment.
You’re safe from questions in your own reflection
Another brain thinks for you,
VANITAS winks at you but you don’t give her attention,
Skulls and faded flowers smell like danger,
Nothing good can ever come out of that.
I may be saving your life,
I may stroke your neck but gently,
Leave your beauty intact
But with a bruise.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Fattish crumbs of furry bread, they keep
Their bodies elastic even when
The frost blocks the eyelids.
Sleeping close to samovars, a symbol
For the warmth which stays hidden
In domestic walls, for the affection
Disclosed under layers of ice.
When babushkas wait to die
Russian cats lay their paws
On decrepit hands
And if the big journey starts
They are the first to bid farewell,
Then go back to the snowy streets of Russia,
Carefully avoiding drunkards
And marshrutkas.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
That jazzy voice you handle from your lips
Is to be handled carefully. Well, it happened already
You took away every bit of somnolence from me
Suddenly emptied me, left me as a cunning child
Naughty enough to deprive himself of a night lavish with dreams,
To escape the sleep routine under the bed sheets.
And then your phonecall,
Breaking fragile silence like a hammer smashing glass,
I followed you beyond the ringing,
Discovered a trembling annoying voice.
You crafty devil, you planned my unsleeping all along,
Filling my ear with problems of all kinds and sorts
And the endless unsatisfactions of a life you never lived as yours.
So tired as hell, the phone hitting the wall,
Your voice remains, some sort of restlessness
Invades me and keeps me going all night long.
I shave, I’ve got but two hours before all cuts are healed
I put my sleep back together
Shard by shard,
Rebuild its slow glassy reflection.
My sleep is after all
A mirror which doesn’t often work.
The daylight knocks already
The nighttime fades behind me
No sleep tonight for poor devils or for me,
No sleep tonight at all.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
I
Boom!
The sound of forks against plates
Deafening ears.
Cutlery,
As an extermination weapon
Lethal enough
To seize eyebulbs and half-cut fingers
Stop the nervous system,
Unleash the dreadful ice.
II
The cutlery
Untouched, slumbers on the table
This spoon of hatred
Swallows the sun
Explodes straight after
Boom!
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
I came from Sicily,
The bone-dry land
Of abandoned temples
Where my ambitions
Did not blossom,
And London was my brightest future.
A future made
Of bills to pay
Of a too expensive rent
Of one meal a day,
Of jobs that slipped
Too easily through my fingers.
But the future was mine at last,
It was mine to read, to grasp,
Frantic, enigmatic, full of riddles
Like the copy of Ariel I had bought
One day at the bookshop.
And just like that copy
Of Sylvia’s book
The future is so cruel,
Yet so incredibly beautiful.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
There’s a constant anxiety on those tables
A perilous way to deflect the world and all its problems
A kind of insidious joy in collecting
All these miniatures, minuscule and exquisitely crafted figures
Bothered by life in their stillness
Like little swans and princesses
Lingering in a silence which is sacred.
These tiny clever ones
Shuffled on slightly scratched wood,
Wear their days like a cloak of doom
And push each other
Like Londoners out of the tube.
Fearless, little monsters
Repressing their hunger,
treading over the borders of life, they enter
forests from which no escape is granted
Where awakens a desire for mutiny,
From the abnormal perfection
Smothered under ceramic faces.
A bedside table full of whatnots
Doesn’t shield you from bad dreams
The little shepherd lies smashed on the floor
And no one’s going to cry for him.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC