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Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Monili argentati con segni lunari
risplendono alla luce del mattino.


Margherite che stanno morendo,
si accasciano altri corpi sulla spiaggia.


Il cielo riflesso sull'acqua,
immenso nell'equilibrio cosmico.


Pende dal cappio un manichino
sfregiato in un vomito d'interni.


Stelle mescolate in mezzo al vento,
tremolanti per paura del silenzio.


***** spaccate come cocci caduti,
ne escon fluendo latte e sangue.
Yellow Boots Jan 2016
lying down
under beauty in the making

be it falling in mass
quietly stubborn

be it raining in petals
once recognizable

be it life-bringing
luscious orange drops

be it the child
of Eros and Psyche

be it me
desisting from life

be what it may, it is not spared
the comfort of kissing the ground
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
All rain but no thunder.
Left my ******* on the sidewalk.
Hot and humid and his lips, livid.
Sunday afternoon, chasing oblivion,
trashing clothes, where is your breast now ?
Is paradise ever far ?
Blue ink on receipt, oil on canvas of the poor,
windowlickers, four of spades, bone wrestlers
stop making yourself more interesting while
it's all fluid and forgotten, quiet
inside those lips, foggy streets, forbidden songs,
no thunder.
My ******* escorted by security services into a landfill.
Burning your hair with no art
a glass, driving, bruised arms.
Me tasting your absence
is like rain but no thunder.
Yellow Boots Apr 2018
I left my bed that smells of you to the kindness of a stranger; your memory will be taken care of by someone who will never have to meet you, someone who is not running away.

Every place a story, the bitter sweetness of the unknown running in spirals on the palm of my hand. The whole planet, a prison of freedom, heart open to mysterious tongues, consciousness spread to embrace the winds. Borrow my eyes, bedbugs and aching heels, if you please. Hi, I'm not home, don't leave a message.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Truth is my mistress' tongue
the fiery hair, the fierce eyes
the feisty lies, the sleight of hand
tied me to her carousel
filled in my bones
whistled.

Queen of the court and a corsair
hair dye stains, bed sheet knots
you my whip, my flag, my ship
tie me to your carousel
whisper tomorrow  
already hurts.

Martyr pain monger, come afloat
this is your refuge.
I shall miss you more
face down in mud,
broken wrists filing nails,
flies in your hair.

Nails bleed aurora's blood;
have you slept with her yet ?
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Well, it was a good run. No chewing and spitting out.
I wrote poems, you made breakfast,
walked through mists, danced mazurkas.
Embroidered constellations onto watercolor paper,
braided wicker in your hair,
stars just as bright to lead me astray;
carved our names into dead trees so we could rightfully say
through all dreams that came true,
our love got wood.
Yeah, no, I'll be fine,
it was nice of you to call;
I'll be here, guarding the river,
making sure water doesn't dare to flow by twice
for it might get confused
when it hears your voice brought back by the fearless wind.
I will forget to leave a candle on to light your way
but you fare safe,
and may the dogs always lick your nose
warm goodnights.
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
The change upon us
is a smile for unsafe grounds
high pitched notes, full breath
is your blank stare to the fireworks
of a trumpet, receding control
is my spine bent
under society's chatter
a transition of priorities
that gives you nothing if you don't see me
and have to make me up in your dreams
curly haired on the pillow
good training I reckon
hands moving fast on the keyboard
change is upon us like milk teeth
rebel drums when you know I'm watching
change is good, change is
us and our love for jazz
inoculated in the wintry city
that offering too much removes all meaning
from any closed-eye song
ever staying the same.
Yellow Boots Nov 2014
Prose is out of fashion, huh ?
So I've heard.
We prefer glittery creatures of the night
over here,
teenage superheroes and treehouses of terror to
la danse macabre.
For Halloween I will dress up like a metaphor
the true undead on a moonless night
sharp canines lodged in place,
mutant paradoxes of rotten flesh,
a bite of singularity.
.. Meh.
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
the dirt under our fingernails
the only treasure map we follow
circumnavigations
of whispers that start and end
on our backs being caressed
by strangers that hide
in the folds of history
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
I can't take it being in the same city,
I say as I scratch my scalp till it bleeds,
as you, cumin-infused silent lullaby,
torturing my dreams, my wake, my morals.
We left to sift the world's full potential,
my fake healing blooming tenderly
in the arms of pirates and schizophrenics;
you gone, me happy,
glass half full of songs and thorns and zen-ness,
cozy in a home all rearranged
to the feng shui of you'll never walk in here again
so you don't see me healthy, childishly cheerful,
grown accustomed to still missing you
each time I open a door and you're not there.
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
Ebony
Risk or starvation
Frantic flight
Corollary drowsiness
Subversive damage
Apostrophe in motion
Between a torn, denied farewell
And the next place
You will call home.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Always listen to music
at the most inappropriate hours,
sing in bed and at the table
to honor the loveliest, perfect fools.
Never quit smoking
to avoid that terrible cough you warned me about, Nara,
at the hospital, veins
stitched together with paper clips.

Still and calm, cold, merry,
didn’t you need me to tell you
that grandpa’s been smoking
(do you remember that time,
sawdust caught fire
outside, in the workshop, us
sculpting african masks?),
that daddy’s been smoking,
that sister’s been smoking.

In the backyard you found one,
gone,
head flowing on the pavement
like cherries;
in his room you found the other,
reversed in cigarette-stained curtains,
orange juice flowing on the carpet
like a mother’s love.
How good of a cook you were
for that last supper that came late!
To go by bike dangerously,
buy fried fish and those swamp courgettes
unequalled and too urgent
even to touch the plates.
To badly sing chords in the
living room, in the long-gone
house by the sea, you
don’t need me anymore.
How good of a charleston was yours,
me mere copy, me spawn of forlorn saints
programming channels on your TV, you
don’t need me anymore.

Lady of mushrooms and candy,
of crystal glasses and tricot
and ***** jokes “where the sun doesn’t shine”, you
pride of bribery, our pride
I can’t quit;
it is family tradition, after all.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
_ that I stole your brown boots, your sewing kit,
   your E.A. Poe book, your love letters
   because if Jesus Christ was crucified,
   not impaled, objects
   must matter to some extent.

_ that the Aviator had been smoking
   and you weren't warned
   because to *** a drag
   he'd flirt with the neighbor,
   which was ***** and a shame to witness.

_ that your mind-reading is done
   and dreams are just dreams now
   because if your sisterhood, triad of witches
   buried corpses under the house
   guess who will have to dig them out.

_ that the white BMW that made children cheer
   made the Südtiroler frown
   because if it was better when Mussolini was there
   dragging girls out to the fields,
   war crimes amount to lollypops.

_ that to Mother you left the crumbs
   and a pile of ungrateful spite
   because writing anonymous threats
   with that proper calligraphy of yours
   was the greatest, revolting success.

_ that the crystal glasses are mine
   a footnote on your will
   because to you I was the rebel one
   who lied and ran
   and hid, but made you laugh.

_ that I forgot the lights on downstairs
   one last time
   because hornets nested in the fireplace
   and after all hidden bottles were drank
   I burnt your memories to dust.
Yellow Boots Sep 2014
Summers when you miss winter
grapes, all wilts too soon
pomegranate, hair grows too fast
mulled wine, until it grows no more.
À chacun son reverie
to each his own regret, complaint
of what was then and is now
uneasy feelings of peace.
The wilderness of your bushes
aflame, incinerated
loathsome
how loneliness, further less pressing in the afterlife
and golden splendor adazzle
but charred, like korean soldiers
always reminds me of you.
The hornet nests crackled in the fireplace
when I set your house on fire
their laughter of agony embellished the hallway
happily buzzing towards descent, aware
ritual     mystic     mass   suicide
of being dragged in the tar pit with you
and offering no resistance.
last eulogy I write. the mess in my head seems to have stabilised to.. uneasy feelings of peace.


.
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
The wind of change
blows onto you
cold lungs' breath
the lake's tears
soak your thoughts
as you move towards novelty
perfectly still by the shore
that threatens to pour on you
high up against the stream
always the same and different.
Insects hurry
cautious and curious on your bare skin
and no money
could buy this freedom of spirit
no planning
could grant or foresee
this immense flow of stone and mountain
clouds and vineyards as infinite stripes
of universal energy, relentlessly
bestowed upon you by a leap of faith
as you plunge into unknown waters.
Night to solace the day,
only direction:
forward, towards.
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
rest now
like the color of peaches
unsuitable for the table
I am swarms
can you hear my love buzz
around your pond
where you're quiet
with the frogs
?
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
I'm not falling
for you
I am in free fall
towards the idea
of you
(and so are you).
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
say your prayers, don't lie, don't steal
buy your ticket to the kingdom of
10 don'ts and a pat on the back
slow clap, exude sarcasm, cue black

our moral integrity passing through
refined sugar, palm oil, plastic bags,
watching ****, micro dosing, ignoring friend requests

tiny particles diluted in all
the brainwashing attempts we failed to fight
as we finance therapists, gurus, the cosmetic industry,
splurge on gym memberships

not doing enough

inventing diseases faster
than we can cure them

not doing enough

troubled but trying
unkindly to dissappear into perfection
we beg you, at the end of our wits
give back to us, give us back

organic carrots, darkness at night,
ballroom dancing on a Sunday afternoon
a river to wash our shirts
a sun to mock them

a proud uniform of humanity
harmlessly consuming
our newly-found freedom of choice
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Poetry at a 45° angle;
the azimuth of its meaning:
french whispers through stained glass.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
once a week, I fall in love.

seasonal variation applies.

still more often than
                I do the laundry.
Her
Yellow Boots Nov 2014
Her
Stupor belongs to that face,
dimples are for embarrassment
the bottom ones,
surrounding your lips,
throwing head to the side,
might as well stomp your feet
for I know what it means,
I know it dear.
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Monotonous bird calls
squirreling from branch to branch
around the house on the hill
and perfumed used jasmine tea bags,
yellow plastic boots for when the woods are wet,
stewed mushrooms called pig ears, fairy hands, little nails,
her knitted cape, her ring.

Tie braided flowers and tiny herbs
I picked from her garden
around my finger,
I wear her pulse on my wrist.
Build a fort here,
live alone by the land that was hers.
Yellow Boots May 2015
through forest fires
coming to you
the stench of paper factories
and indian sweat
with yellow flowers of May I'll write you
love poems of leaves
before they're mulched to muddy waters
wondering what their smell will be like
once they finally reach you
and it's mixed with yours
to melt into golden honey in your hands_
Yellow Boots May 2015
How do we relate to the ancient magicians
that traveled before they colonized the forests ?
What is the secret within tribal costumes and instincts
we've been formatted to forget ?
How much of our intrinsic sadness
belongs to the woods and the fireflies
and do we have to be buried
with it, kicking and splintered,
before it's brought back to the surface?
Yellow Boots Jan 2016
Like a mule
that gently learnt the art of escape
my thirst went rambling
the narrow streets
unpossessed, unfollowed
it licked the crevices
of cobblestone, the marble floors
unwatched.

I ****** a peach
and it was bitter
yet it's unknown, my rose,
if I chewed or spat it out.
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Correvamo giù dalle scale
pattini nascosti nello zaino
quell'androne e le sue prime esperienze
andare a fare salti nell'autodromo
e mio padre prima di noi
mi venivi a prendere da scuola
scrivevi lettere, blu su bianco
ancora le ** in una scatola.

Quella terra solo nostra,
città per me sempre analogica
questa, mai mia, d'immigrata,
di messaggi letti e non risposti
dove l'aria non profuma di casa ma
di adattamento,
senza biciclette o piste o campi.

Quasi trent'anni e come i nostri vecchi,
che i fossi li saltavano per il lungo,
rimpiangendo che qualcuno chieda
"vuoi giocare con noi",
a pensare a quanti errori fatti,
a livello cosmico,
perchè perfino i nostri progenitori
ci pensino più contenti qua fuori
che non di fianco a loro
sul Titanic che affonda.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
Down in Beyoğlu
killing fish, time and pastels

Down in Bebek
your hands smothering flowers,
your sweat


Up on Galata tower
drummers on the roof,
here bombs won't reach

Up in Taksim
arsenic tastes sweet
on our salty cheeks


Along down the Bosphorus
all memories of me buried deep
for river snakes to nibble on_

Finally,
we fled.
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
It's your birthday today
all the yellow bridges I cross
with the hay stacks and the chopped wood
and the lady's dogs shepherding the calves
shrink the distance
between my goosebumps and your shivers
and the wisdom that you see will come.
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
I will load the washing machine
I will
do the laundry
enjoy the spring sun
try not to wonder

they don't have to be sad
poems
and goodbyes
I don't have to
just get by, obviously
drifting my days away
picking the simplest feelings
and words
plain, honest, little getting by
hanging it out in the sun
rinse, repeat
but come back tomorrow, love
and they will have dried.
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
Sul pavimento scheggiato
a piedi nudi
lo sguardo, timido e complice
arrossire dell'urgenza innocente
ti porgo la mano
una colonna sorregge chimere
castelli disegnati e gonne strette
con armonia d'intenti
sollevo la coscia
respira, rilassa
movimenti tondi e spaziosi
circumnavigare l'euforia
a cadenza ritmica
la forza di gravità diminuisce
quando è con te che danzo.
Yellow Boots Dec 2014
I'm not procrastinating
I'm just doing all the things
that don't need to be done
that I had never planned on doing
that will lead me to magical discoveries
and epiphanies and crazy stories to tell
to the children I don't want to have
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
Sometimes moderation
should be taken with moderation.
Yellow Boots Sep 2018
the surface of madness
the treasures below
ropes, ramshackle air pockets
afloat, in the autumn sun
gifts and curses are dispensed
by the change of a tide
with mourning grown heavy,
unsteadied the course
(one more farewell to bid)
coexistence of crime
punishment
crime
punishment
punishment
fool oneself twice
for breathing underwater
is no matter for sane souls
.
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
I fill your shirt warmly
but lifting the veils of reason
we're lovers in the ****
intolerant to any lack of beauty.
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
kiss me now before the apoplectic
sun reaches the horizon, before
your hate for these refined garments and manners
sends you roaming the wild
land of deja-vus, before
I am not barren but narcoleptic,
sterile, fight
with me for it's been too long
since you and I were created unequal
to last or stand the loss
of one lustful moon
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
She woke up early to go down to the river. Over the week, blossoms had covered the cherry trees and the sun had gotten further from the Earth. The air was chilly and it smelled of lemonade and sulfur. She bought a strawberry lollypop at the kiosk on the corner and started off against the traffic; the cars still had their lights on and shadows were long. The black and white cat with pointy ears passed her rapidly on his way home after his nightly duties, fierce and smug he trotted majestically down the alleyway then halted alert at the zebra crossing.
The most wondrous, magical moments, the most mundane, turn to ash in front of her eyes. All amounts to the same, all is transmuted to a cog in her mechanical routine. All she had wished for had come true and a peculiar ecstatic apathy followed hysteria, disbelief, suspicion and healthy wisdom, respectively. She missed the smell of fire and wind, the clouds, the darkness. A gargantuan *** of bubbling stew; wood splinters under the skin. She voraciously gnawed the last bits off the stick, gulped down the sugary mixture and bit into the plastic until her teeth were clenched hard, then released as her jaw muscles started twitching.
No amount of thinking would lead her in a favorable direction; for a while, she had refused to take decisions, opting for trusting the world to give her the green light. Instinct, on the other hand, had always known where happiness lives but drives armless down dusty slopes, suicidally dazzled by shooting stars, breaking only after the gates are shut behind and the tank is as empty as an ocean whose waves have all crashed.
She pet the cat, which meowed a tale of mice and prowess, then crossed running the red traffic light. The time for being cautious expired yesterday; futures are kamikaze and hungry for insatiable railways and distant, candlelit tenderness.
Yellow Boots Feb 8
To humble seaweed the task
of connecting universes we carry
on our shoulders.

Demasiadas mãos ao peito
Levaram oferendas pesadas
Da tua viagem que baralhou as cartas
Nesse desgasto chamado amizade.

Cães, montes e estrelas encima
Já presenciaram ao teu encanto,
Meu lastimável desentendimento
Que menos te calavas, mais me estremecia.

A custa da confiança rechazada
O que nunca foi vai ser entregue
Às árvores, aos cães, às estrelas encima
Medicina afague minha frágil teimosia.

Não nos deixamos faltar nada
Menos que todo a palavra loucura
Nesse amor que derrumbamos a pedaços
Que nos destroçou, inconscientes da sua vulnerabilidade.

Silêncio que esconde beijos, disse Neruda,
Quebrado por tener um oceano como alivio
Um suplício aceite já sem raiva
Tu história para contar com mis palavras.
Yellow Boots Jun 2015
Non parlarmi.
Apri il lucernario,
l'aria è pesante.
Accosta gli scuri,
l'alba è entrata fuori tempo stamattina.
Leggimi Bulgakov
di soppiatto, nella stanza spenta.
Dammi il tabacco
perchè danzi su queste labbra imbronciate
mentre pronunci male tutte le parole importanti
e non mi parli.
Passami un bicchier d'acqua
attraverso questo silenzio brulicante di genere,
mostra il tuo buon cuore
alla gelosia degli oggetti che tocco
e continua a non parlarmi,
se ti pare.
Yellow Boots Dec 2015
clusters of you
in the notes that slide
from hazy fingers,
confusions inherently slow
for the skin to witness,
neck-bending sweetness
and frustration
and you
and pieces.
do we hide in the repetition
of patterns,
does it clump together,
the amalgam distilled;
there is no us, nor
for the keys, nor for the strings_
Yellow Boots Oct 2015
Change of wind
of constellations to follow
of leading notes and accents
of spices and base values
of you and me and the smile
we'll fall asleep to, tonight.
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Experience draws a path. Crumpled grass, should have covered my tracks better. I just want to forget how I got here, so that I can't go back.

I love it here. A soft and sweet den. We've been digging bits after bits, my bunny and I, and I'm positive we'll reach the antipodes. Soon enough we'll crawl in fallen leaves, una foresta fresca, a volte come Le Douanier. In macchina vestita di bianco, bello come la coda di un coniglio.

Happiness makes it all y no me digas que no puedes con esta locura. There are no answers and no questions, and I'm glad to share this wide electric solitude with you. Is there anything you really want ? Satisfactory punctuation, a ballerina in distress ? The indomitable willingness to embrace pure concepts in a purple skyline of irrational paranoia ?
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
whimsical union of intents
in this square, like stray dogs
looking for each other's owner
weaving machiavellian plans
(retrospectively already outdated,
though methodically reiterated)
nibbling on stale juicy bones
oozing bittersweet belonging,
undermining stable systems
of comfortable relentless solitude,
dozing off licking each other's noses
in the same ripe misty heaven
that's today's mock-up of a home.
Yellow Boots Feb 8
They have taken the door, the bed and the light-bulbs
Free-thinkers without a cause, the rusty pipes, the pile of coins
Up and down the stairs, I'm counting what's left.
You're right at the core of everything that burst; we still have
The present tense

Daydreaming, True love waits.
In a cup, held with both hands,
in the forest, wooden liquid
confused about its purpose in your guidance.
We're out of tea and a real place to sit
There's blood in the sink, green
paint everywhere, it's in the air
It's maddening, don't breathe.

There's time in the organs of a house
the stairs, the blame,
the fear of settling down.
The life-support of a city
seeping into a room too empty
to be so full of us and of stains to clean.
They've taken away the ghost;
unburdened, we drink.

Terrible births have been poured;
kind hands take away the empty bowl.
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
We will build a house
in the forgotten crooked forest
to be our primordial nest
and all people's refuge, raft.

Through screen doors that won't shut
a glimpse of me, baking
banana shortbread cakes, the kids
out there, feeding donkeys, happy
goats making cheese for arab salads,
reminding all brothers to avoid potato sprouts,
sweet poison strangely bitter, thorny artichokes
to joke that eating flowers
makes for perfumed manure.

Freeloading kindness from all quarters, sides
indian TPs and caravanas
for long-term guests, tree houses
for the little ones, a tyre swing
that fits 5, jet-propelled into the lake.

A treasure hidden in its basement, glistening
for a stable house always needs to stand on one leg,
while you, lost at sea, starstruck continue
showing your grin to the world
for that's your home and the best way
not to feel empty is to keep going.

But us,
what a beautiful house we will build !
Yellow Boots May 2015
You asked me for a paper,
I smiled.
On the train to aesthetics,
charcoal stained fingers
and a french beanie hat.
You knew I would treat you better
than your runway wife from the balkans;
war-caused addictions,
how she saved you and left you here to rot
as Paris called her but your bones were heavy.
Rehab had made you weaker,
the house on the hill almost exploded
when you attempted a quick escape
leaving the gas canister open.
My hugs made you invisible
to fascist police down Via Zamboni,
burping up all your discontent,
hiding in the last row of my philosophy class;
è un amore impossibile
despite your green blue eyes,
the radio warned us
and I listened.
I watched you inject it
in the train station's bathroom,
the needle too thick, your skin too soft,
my voice too feeble to keep you unharmed.
Mother's ears too long
to ever let me pick up the phone;
your scattered drawing of me
to guide me to your unmarked grave.
Yellow Boots May 2015
You asked me for two papers,
I smiled.
Through rotten teeth,
right after puberty,
you spat your doomed philosophy at us,
set desert bushes on fire
as the pink avalanche kept stirring.
You'd never seen the snow
or crossed a sea
but the stars that came in that night
like foreign dialects, unceremoniously
spelled out in grains of sand
shone on religiously
on your ****-hardened tongue.
The dunes forgave our sins
spun into dromedary wool.
Yellow Boots Aug 2014
There's no way of coming clean
from this smell of ***** and ***
footsteps down the corridor
candles that will burn
down to the very essence of wax
your face dripping in morsels
scary heels, secret door-closing sounds
out of this prison, give into the world
stained horse-riding boots
walls coming closer to support
the disembowelment of your memory in wax

fragility of this city I love,
lively echoes down a smoky corridor.
Yellow Boots Mar 2015
Famous poet of death and promiscuous love
offers witty captions for your selfies
suits all styles and targets
social network friendly
specialised in b & w & shades of Grey
accessible pricing, genuine callers only
Yellow Boots Nov 2015
cadence is egypt
burning one more down, a thousand
neighbors stomping their youth restless
as trance music wine-making fiascos
taking the best of both worlds, leaving the rest
to figuring out, to peasants
in cities not worth bothering for
greenland will submerge them, hopefully
solar storms edit them
to new geographies of realness
and that welcome home won't be appealing
to narrow mindedness that got narrower
Rainbow is not my favorite color
Yellow Boots Apr 2015
Poetry is a lie
when I sleep with you, dream about him,
sleep with him, dream about you,
write about you, blinded by his yellow eyes that mean nothing,
it's a lie that changes nothing.
If it's about you, my muse, on both knees you'll fall.
Freely recalling metaphorical deeds, my love,
the thorn stays in your paw.
So inflate your chest but believe
what is here, it's all for me.
Just a reminder; it's not you, it's me.
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