O man, artifice of a rash nature!
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Room 202
May 24, 2018upon 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…
Room 201
September 21, 2017The 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
Room 200
August 10, 2017I 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.
