Think that we're not the only ones
Feel like this skin isn't fully mine
Sometimes i am the lives of others
Otherwise i am no one's life
Understand that even pain has its own lightness.
It must be understood and caressed
A pain for its brightness
The most fragile crystal you could see.

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

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

If the time
could flow
The thought of you
would wash away

And who knows why
I want to look far ahead
Cause this is how you cure a lovesickness
Cause that's how it stops hurting
Yet I feel defeated
Yet I feel like I'm losing everything
Yet I feel like I'm losing nothing

If time could pass
I could be next to you

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

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.

Is the loneliest number

One by one
Are the fingers counted

One
Is the puff of air
Softly touching
The tip of my nose

Everything tastes one,
like the first drop





falling on the dry tongue

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.

Mother sacrifice
Fix the white canvas in the corner
Too far away to paint
Too close for the mind
There's nothing more to say
She regrets her interrupted dreams
And watching her son realizing them
She paints over the melancholy
of her empty pictures.


Dear Mother,
It is not too late.
There is still so much to paint.

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 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 certainly have the will to get to the bottom of things
To prove myself that I'm able to do it
Certainly someone has to say it
but I don't mind carrying this burden on my shoulders
I don't mind at all.

I've lived so often doubting myself
That at a certain point I told me
If it had been so easy to commit to doubts
It would have been just as easy
to commit to certainties.

I think about small lives, about ants
And about the silence of a moderate existence
The need to be discreet
To ask permission if necessary
But with the pride of knowing where to go.

It's the small beings who have the world in hands
They cover themselves from the rest with breadcrumbs
But not out of shame
But out of pride

The unproven confidence
The one that went unnoticed.

Just a moderate pride of being small
knowing where to go.

There is a brunette lady
dancing in a white camping tent

from the outside you would say
that it is not a suitable place for grace

but no one knows that is the palace
of love and fear
where you can feel the heart move
the heart balance

make love with fear
make love with life
And being the fear of making love

no one knows that is the place
where a green labyrinth grows
and a rootless plum tree stands on a checkered floor

wonders what matters
to look for a suitable place

if you drink water in the desert
if black and white chess makes you
a graceless body
In need of giving love
In need of being loved.

Roll and Watching the doves playing.

Roll.
And
Watching the Doves.

In the white camping tent.