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.

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!

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.

Few things are as black
As a snowless December morning

In Norway.
Some nights it's so

Dark I can't
Sleep.

Her touches connect me
to the magic and that's
what she
does.

In the weaving of spells,
incantations,
she dwells in
my heart.

There's no abracadabra can beat her
only me
and I'd never defeat her,
the magic gets stronger
the longer we touch
and the touch
connects me to her heart.

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.

To my Love:

Destroy
With all the strength you have,
These antique walls that constitute my body.

Excessive solidness,
Excessive height of limbs,
I hear no sound of prayers from your mouth.
Just tear my walls down.

Let me fall in pieces.
Let me slowly bleed on autumn morning.
Unveil me, disrupt me
Like a storm of raging thunders
Washing centuries away.

Undo me and I’ll be yours.
Dismantle me and I’ll be yours, and yours alone.

And once you’re finished come close to me
To build me up again,
To save me from a liturgy of pain
And make me a constellation yet to be
Shaped into the bulky form of galaxies.