upon substance all types lay,
it is said;
types which substance exposes
and makes real.
Now, if you don’t get upset,
we insist and say
this class of worlds in consciounsness lay:
now there’s a white kitchen, look,
a white kitchen with red stools…
The room I enter’d was a dream of this room.
I guess some of the things on the bed
were mine,
Two books, antithetic – Sexus, Atomised
a green, worn out King Stampede t-shirt
yet a room without blinds cannot be my own
nor I’d harbor a tree, eating air
at night
light and dioxide building a worn out me
in a memory of days gone, of days
possible, parallel & unparalleled
a city like a Lemarchand box
but good,
how long will I be able to plug it on?
memory is possibility
si tratta di resistere arriverà
a new radical wave will make shore
you wrote
on the outside wall of this very building
now sporting drawings of unicorns
I cut my hair with children’s scissors,
the only blade in the house (which is
a room) all dirty with your morning
orange’s pulp, children scissors with pink
& purple handles, I cut them more
than I wanted – as it always goes
and now I wander about, looking
like a fag version of Modigliani:
shirt properly open I flip flop
through a city all holes, all light,
immune for a while to its double
nature, its serpentine ill nature:
is the one who walks on stolen land
a bit of a thief himself? ID…
I had a friend moving in Piedmont
from Pisa, got nicknamed The Etruscan
(no reggae involved: more a long lost
“virile friendship” sort of thing, maybe
up there calling names glorifies you
instead of putting you down). But I
do not feel etruscan (nor roman)
in this phoenician, hebrew, arab
land; even tuscan feels uneasy:
I’ll try then to be a marchigiano,
counting on the fact that my grandma’s father,
she said, came from those hallowed and shallow grounds.
Is this then life
(not even geneses were dreamt),
soil underfoot, overhead sun?
What is the grass, might then be ask’d
but I shall not be pastoral
as my grass is just shrubbery:
thick weeds growing along a yard,
clovers in a modest garden
–
standing there
(Grab the daisy! but I do not move),
I know I’m solid and sound, deathless
– interference in waveform, moiré
on a bubble? Maybe: yet I am time
and matter and my bare feet pillars
& compass;
my spirit needs no vindication
my mother’s shadow’s but a sundial
and grass-spiders crawling all about
the control lights of earth’s intention.
then my heart was taken
& thrown in a casserole
Shroud! said one
and starless a night fell,
a walls & roof sort of night
Transitions
were hoped, & manifold
there in the wooden darkness
(while knocks) while
all knocks stopped
is that sound time
roaring in my eyes like a river?
In the neutral stanza everything stops –
Now I have a son:
I’ll show him everything
with words lacking syllabes
from the basket the cut head augurs
enter the fire,
become a moth, a moth,
derange yourself, tear down your house –
you’ve got the tomb’s night: acquire
the night of destiny,
become dumb, read from broken bark
in the night of wishes
gyre corona
a Diwali of possibilities
