the wisdom of the ground


you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed
you lived neither 7 years of drought nor 3 nights without a day
through the core of your eyes you let inside a hurry-scurry
of swarming cherry petals flocks of crowned swans sunrises with a purple mantle

and all the vain beauty of this world

the gray nun’s outfit is so straightly cut
and the vestment of the nightingale is so poor
so do listen my friend to the deaf-mute mother swaying her sleeping baby
listen to the wordless and powerful silence in the last communion

yet it is still too much

I saw once a woman in a funerary cortege, the other women cried aloud or wept along the way, only she lagged behind like a sluggish stone she hardly breathed when the road suddenly climbed and the funeral banner fell at the graveyard’s gate, she was still silent like the earth, some people said that she was a witch or evil because she did not speak, but she looked gently towards them with pure and sparkling eyes

I met once a man who loved his child and gave him a beautiful fairy tale to be read every night, after many years the child deserted him and did not come back, but the old man looked at the child’s picture with the same love in his eyes, when he died people said that he was a bad man because he kept silent and thus the rats ate him in his grave, but after a few more years his child became silent too looking at others like his father did once

you are not worth yet the price of a mustard seed and neither do I

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jagged


life is jagged
it sticks with doggish eyes to your ankle
and asks for fondling
at the border of the wasteland
where the long black engine whistles from time to time

but life is jagged and has no pity
alike the human brain seen under microscope
it has an extended area if you unfold it
each little street from the slums bears the name of a saint
there the scent of barbecue and beer mixes with incense
the magicians play tough games
forcing the neighboring constellations
to disappear
they bury them over the heads of everyone
under pleated and fanciful dresses

and fog falls in for the people who died for saintly matters
those who don’t understand the stubbornness of the bull
compelled to fight
with its bloody horns
there is the Moon climbing on the sky heavier and heavier
red or yellow
jagged on its edge like an old weeding knife

Categories: My poems in 2016 | Tags: , , | 3 Comments

bagatelle


what can I say revered audience
form the underground of two millennia
life is beautiful my esteemed contemporaries
from the Moon to the Sun it is a long time
life is so beautiful and has such deep eyes
regardless of their color
it cries torrential tears and it fights like a sea
that is forced to go back in front of the seawall
it is beautiful and it never jokes about the lost paradise

and there is nothing shameful to confess
because us those from the rear battalion we need air
neither too much nor too little
we nibble from every plate at the table of silence
only for pleasing our taste
and gossip tells that we are endangered species
in your world where every little thing is upside down for us
a world so logical that we can see the artificial light blooming
between me and your Highnesses
between me and the stock of the rifle or the noose from the barn
or the rat poison
between masters and slaves

we tithe those who foretell reading the sky’s map
we dream tales about the laborers working in the fields
we dream stories about tired lunatics reaping the tall wheat
within themselves

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antifeminism


my ladies
why did you let your men make you manlike
I don’t think about the beer that you gurgle beside them
nor about the steering wheel the ceremonial pipe
or the new chemical elements
but I think about comfy pants and comfy bras
or boyish haircut
and for God’s sake
even on your face or your eyes there is no makeup

I already know your answer
that man is born as Pygmalion Jesus or Einstein
or any other stupid figure
that the progress of the mankind cannot be stopped
that some good day the face in the mirror will be different
either you’re Snow-White or you’re the evil queen
but for God’s sake
it only them who win
not you

you pretty shrews

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the law of the lid


all of them are striving and straining
all of them are writhing like fishing worms in a jar
and I still wonder why
all of them try hard to bite one more morsel
from the good ones who died young
from the too good who died very old
from me the one still lively
depending on the sun and moon errands

the more I look closely the more I see clearly
beyond clouds and imagined rainbows
beyond the supersonic flight or the anti-gravitational force
beyond the white weapons and the red crosses
the more they think that it is exactly me head over heels
while they are are only striving hard
like turbines through my living blood

all of us slaves belonging to two masters
slaves for the seen and the unseen
slaves for concessional cemetery plots
unlike the earth that can be stolen or bought
and can be lost
that is too heavy
and silent

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