Last evening Adam came to me and said:
Listen, Dorian, let’s lay it on the table. In my garden
I have a house. It is yours, for free. All you have to do is
take care of the garden: cut the grass, get rid of the weeds,
Water the flowers, feed the wolves…whatever…pick up the leaves,
Maybe do a bit of to sweeping…ok?
I looked Adam into the eyes, I watched the way
he moved his bunch of keys, the way he had shaved his beard above the upper lip
and his snake leather trousers, his shoes.
And I said: Yes! With a hand on my hip and the other over my eye
Then Adam got into his car, opened the gates of paradise with the remote control
And I was left alone. I fell to my knees,
On the alley with snails and lemons,
Then I started to pull the weeds with my bare hands.
The sun was shining on my back, rather hard,
But I, charged
With bottles of water, was stronger than him.
Innocently, I set my mobile to play Mozart
And the butterflies hit my chest like a powerful love
The garden was flourishing under my hands. Even the sun was fawning under my knees
And the wolves were eating flower seeds and grass form my hands.
Then she passed, dragging by her bare feet a marble cross.
I ran and picked up the cross, until I managed to throw it over the wall.
She looked at me and said:
Glad to meet you. What is your name? I’m Marianne.
Then she went indoors, with a bag of snakes, in her arms.
Many years I worked at that garden. But Adam never came home.
(At times, from the house, I hear noises, scratching and cooing)
Sometimes, even in my sleep I hear his voice calling me:
Dorian, Dorian, where are you?
I am here milord…here I am.
What did you do?
Nothing, nothing at all..
Dorian, I have a house in my garden. Did I tell you?
Yes, Sir, you did…
And did I agree?
Yes, we both did.
Then, I see him darkening, opening the car door and getting in smiling
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
when the tree of love rises in me
and its skin breaks in the white of the eyes
this harsh celestial tree this blackness
I open these eyes
my kind serene eyes
a set of knives laid in order
then you know
I never forgive love
when these hands turn into lemon flowers
and descent down the spine
I need you now
don’t say a word about it
soon the fog will come
and in the fog you shall slip like the sparrow in a cat’s claw
the fog will come
it will come, here it is
gather your dress beneath you
and sleep with your face turned to the wall from now on
I want to break you a wing with my knees
your eyes gripping me into a fire
I shall throw them in a bugs’ nest
I won’t look back
I never look back
but now I am coming towards you
I come like a star drilling the darkness
my love
fingers crossed
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 4:23 AM UTC
I have no strength when I see this woman
The way her finger brushes her lips,
The way she lowers it among the pages
Scattering their words within the grass
Like a swan its wings in the red and soft sun.
Don’t rush talking to her in birds’ tongue, I order myself
Nor sing to her a child’s prayer from the chestnut leave
Thus, in a gallop, over sheets of paper, the knight stretches his arm rigidly,
A snare to the innocent sparrow
With a frail finger she oppresses the lips of this poem,
And they are enjoying the whipping of the purple hair
Which she threw, like the fisherman his trawl, ahead of the gallop.
I have no strength since she raised her eyes,
And their spear was released through my ribs
Towards the thicket of the lake,
Where the mud swallows the lines of a patched up boat.
(on the shore, the fish are throwing themselves, burned by this light and there they lay)
oh happy ones, for you found your pursuit in her path!
Alas myself, for there’s no strength in me to eat and to drink
When I see this woman and words are falling out of my mouth
Like some crumbs for the stray dogs
Like some flowers thrown on the water
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 9:57 AM UTC
Leaning against the wall, tapping my belt, I’m waiting
For my woman
To come out of the shop with a bag full of candy and beer
Like a black swan arching her neck in the red sun
Through my shades comrades with hands glued to the handle bars
Are passing by, raving their engines
Beards are fluttering and fringes stretching like wings.
Their women are showing their finger, one hand grasping like a chain
The chest of the riders.
There she is, kicking the stones with her foot,
Like a daughter of hell, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
I shall bite her neck, with my hand in her hair,
Like a scorpion above the tarantula.
And she knows, by the way I stand and watch.
She throws the bag in the dust and it bounces.
The oranges roll over, one by one,
And the tea box bursts open, a scorpion comes out of it,
Crawling over the stones.
I shall squash it with my foot, while biting her mouth.
I shall signal her: get on!
And on one wheel only I shall steer the devil away
Leaving behind
The lights of the petrol station.
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 1:48 AM UTC
On the ladder of pain, others sadder than we are
Are climbing up and down constantly
I watch them from my balcony, when they come and take out their garbage
Because right behind my building, by the containers
Is the end of the ladder, and beyond it
Well, who knows. Nobody knows
Or maybe I’m not told. I’m not as yet one of them, you see, to be let into such information.
First I told myself: nonsense. And John, from 7th floor said the same:
Get out of here, what ladder? What holes?
Hey, buddy, I’m telling ya, there’s no ladder there! No hole, man! And I take my ******* out every evening.
There might be one in your head!
I touched myself: no hole! So, I started watching.
Today, tomorrow, until one evening when
I saw it.
It was…a huge hole! It swallowed me at once! And the ladder,
Was shiny and sturdy.
I ran to the kitchen, I took the sack with leftovers and started going down
Running.
The others, quicker than me, were ahead. And they were running as fast as their legs would take them, as if someone was after them.
And when they were touching the ladder, they would suddenly throw themselves head first! And the ones they were bracing themselves trying to hang on were pushed from behind.
So, slowly but surely, I started to slow down.
And, when I saw no one was watching, I started going backwards.
Then I started running.
I went to a halt in the middle of the sitting room and grabbed my head in my hands.
Somebody had moved the ladder by the foot of the table, the big one, covered in the
Last supper doily (maybe the guy upstairs, John, in a moment of adamic hate rage)
Years have passed since. Questions, frictions, showers, pills…anyway, nonsense.
I’m now cured by that thing with the ladder. Oy, mate, I say, there’s no ladder there!
In my house only the wooden floor’s shining! You can shave in it mate! You can shave in it!
Look at it! It came all the way from Germany, they know their stuff, Germans!
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC