He told me "I'm here"
I never answered him
I would have loved to do it
I would have loved to tell him that I was there too.


The next day they found him dead in a ditch.


Meanwhile
Two passers-by were talking about filled cakes
"Alla marmellata, alla crema".

the source of my love
is the same one that it takes me away from you

but it's too close
and I feel it alive
It bounces in all walls of my body

Chi gira di mattina
sono i vagabondi e i marciatori mattinieri.
I vagabondi spostano le loro cose da un punto ad un altro.
I mattinieri si preparano alla giornata.
Che potessi essere sia l'uno che l'altro non lo escludo.
Marciatori di mondi vagabondi
che spostano pensieri nell'angolo
dove il giorno non li vede

I wish you would remember that moment

Without justification or transposition
Without those words

You know what I feel,
                     you know what my unspoken words say
And so that somewhere yours are reflected with mine

I just wanted to keep it
I just wanted to protect my feeling,
                                                 my warmth

I have to let you go, along with your inconsistent words
How slowly they rise and crash against the walls of the houses
Reducing what is of me to a waste matter

And then in front of the mirror
I asked myself a question already asked before
What do you think?
I think it’s worth it.
Words never spoken.
The tenderness of the gaze whispered sweet words
I knew I missed them today
But if I had them with me, how much would I have enjoyed
The fullness of those words?

The fragile see swinging
A liana, ending among the veil of clouds
It was reminiscent of the beanstalk plant
But it retained the ruins of an abandoned castle

It's a game or a save
Soon they saw it clearly

He is a man of medium height
Which manages to be a plant but also an animal
he is his world and that of others, he is whatever the mind tells him to be

The condition of the fragile is sad,
that for lack of creativity and inspiration,
never manage to change the appearance


As well as young rampant people
who do not want to feel the weight of fragility
They jump, holding on tightly to the liana
To the commuter man

It's a ***** job to be the teller of brutal fairy tales
But somehow the man has to entertain the hearts of the fragile
Prepare them for impact, they would not always remain hanging
They would not always remain floating travelers of nowhere
And their hearts would not always have absorbed everything bad in the world

How many fragile lives he sees clinging to his stem
There are sad eyes looking at him from below
And he looks at them from above and understands
that his virtue has become a cross, a universal pain
The eyes of others have become his
And the sweetness with which he cradled and carried the weight of others
All he did was lead the fragile to love him in all the guises he wanted to choose

Upside down She looks like a cockroach
She wiggles her paws with technical grace

Needs help to turn

Back with the paws on the ground
She stops on the precipice of the balcony
Looks motionless at the trees from above

As if She already knew where to go,
Or rather as if she knew where not to stay.


Can Bedbugs Fly High?


And without thinking for a moment more
Between the grates, I watch her go away

Mother sacrifice
Fix the white canvas in the corner
Too far away to paint
Too close for the mind that no longer knows what to say
I regret my interrupted dreams
Watch my son realizing his dreams
He paints over the melancholy
of my empty canvas

for me
           a sacrificial mother

The nights they leave him alone,
he breathes in the pungent smell of jasmine.

They left us the land, he thinks.
And they left us tadpoles in the ponds.

Twirling tadpoles that, in the murky waters,
he watches competing non-stop.

But it is on the large rock that the eye stops blinking.
He watches her stare, underwater and stranger,
at the fast world that surrounds her.
From the stagnant bottom. Under the blanket of moss.
Endlessly it sinks deeper and deeper. Out of the way.

And out of the pond, think about how useless speed is
if you can't see the stones at the bottom,
if you don't have the time to stop and smell the jasmine.

There is no space
for



the unnamed files

unless they find other unnamed files
then they would deserve their own space of existence

the individual surrenders to the despotic neuralgia aroused by the mass

The anemic little girl makes the mannequins blush
she fills her pockets with books
to tear herself away from fake tenderness
from flower lovers

she jumps from hat to hat
and with magic tricks disappears

there's no caustic world
no poison that can pollute the blood
she knows where she doesn't want to stay


to protect herself
     from The All Same

i like talking about those images you know.
of the dark forest
and the spheres illuminate our path,
float between the fronds.

they tell me that it is not about love.
you can love one person and belong to another.
every day I repeat it to myself
when the first evening comes to us.

i bring back those images.
to have you back
for a moment.
to tell you that it was all true
to tell you that i see you,
kissing my hand again, beside the dark.

Step by step, you disappear.

Hold on to the rough bark. Scratch my palm.
Looking for the water source

Where is there any turning back?
What is the point of arrival that silences every gasp?
There would be no redemption.

There will be no merit or improvement,
there will be no demonstration or change, revenge and opportunity that can make you become a good person.
You may know love in the furrows of others, but not fully feel its languor.
You will be able to rejoice the moment before, and cancel yourself the moment after.

I have known death in the faces of the people I loved.
I've seen so much sacrifice fall asleep suddenly.
I've seen so many wrinkles unwind and find peace.
I feel no shame in thinking about death.
Being twenty-five years old and dealing with the earth every day.
Talk to the earth.
As if the clods could weigh on my mood.
Being old enough to do everything but becoming the shadow of nothing.
To be an inconsistent fullness of color.
Like the dark. Like black.
Be twenty-five years old. Caring about life but not enough to live it.

I wonder what the way is to leave everything behind and start again.
Without forgetting me, without forgetting them.

Then they asked me: A cosa stai pensando?
So I forgot.

Son come up and see the light
Have you ever heard about the story of the lonely fish?
He sits swimming in silence
With no friends to play with

but it was all in the sea current
it was enough for him
to go wherever he wanted
distant and fast
without ever stopping.

all of a sudden
the whole ocean seemed full
and even the small plankton, weighed on it.
And he felt their weight get closer to him.

We're not the only ones, I think
I feel like this skin isn't fully mine
Sometimes I live the lives of others
Sometimes no one's life
I look from the outside to understand that even pain has its own lightness.
It must be understood and caressed like the most fragile crystal


My pain,
                     you put me into a wary sleep
give me the momentum, let yourself be appreciated
only then
could we find ourselves again

-

Non siamo i soli, penso
Sento che questa pelle non è pienamente la mia
A volte vivo la vita degli altri
A volte la vita di nessuno
Guardo dall'esterno per capire che anche il dolore ha una sua leggerezza.
Va compresa e accarezzata come il cristallo più fragile


Mio dolore,
                     addormentami in un sonno guardingo
dammi lo slancio, lasciati apprezzare
solo così potremmo trovarci di nuovo

I often stand under the trees,
Waiting for the myrtle to fall
like drops on the mouth.

I feel the earth talking under my back
unveil secrets of other worlds
It keeps silent about a City, which is under the backbone
It is being built with drills and picks.
The ear rests, weightlessly, on the ground
to feel the sweat slide down your forehead
and fill up with the din of the miners
until all the walls of the body have been touched by its echo.
Up to the point of touching the din of the tips and pickaxes.
Rests.

The green of the stems twines around the fingers
and there they remain, too
watching the myrtle fall,
sewn to the earth.

I let emerge placid purple velvet leaves,
from the clothes.

I watch the myrtle fall
And the light filtered by the flowering trees
berry after berry, pierce the veil.