Poetic proses by Remil
A pic of mine electronically processed
I would like to express my thanks and appreciation to my special friend, Dee, for all the time and patience she willingly spent to correct the english translation of this book.
OUR VIOLENT CITY
This
collection of poetic proses is divided in 5 parts: The love, The delusion,
The rebellion, The tiredness, The violence. The author has conceived this
book like a symbolic travel through some possible phases of life. The "
TOWN " that, in this book represents the outward and its solicitations,
can sometimes change the personality and the hopes of the common people.
These poems don't exactly analyze one kind of the once constituted society
but tries only to describe, in a romantic and sentimental way, the changes
and the passions at the beginning, always good and filled with enthusiasm
that, if they failed, they can undergo a metamorphosis until it turns to
cynicism and to the total loss of every sense of decorum and of respect.
THE LOVE.......................................................
When the town is good it
often gives birth to pages of love
that fill the air with
mysterious harmony.
Bitterness and joy, sometimes
at the same time
UP
THE DEATH OF THE SUN
Look there....
it is the death of the sun.
Most call sunset its end.
It shall be night afterwards
no one was expecting this.
How strange and sad all is it!
If the best beautiful moment
precedes the end of things
maybe towards the sunset,
my love,
we will notice
to love each other!
You aren't anymore,
I 'm not anymore,
Hung in the air.
Hold me now we are close to love
and your body
is only a note of a harp
freed in the wind.
A day
I will pick you up with me
letting you know
the good and wise waters of happy love.
Also the arid earths of silence
where we have built our house
will find the words
that we never said
during the long play of the absences.
You will see,
my love,
a day you will come with me
to know the white light of the infinite!
It is cloudless!
Also the last tear gathers the blue of day,
the yellow sun of the flowers
and from the wind
the last hair's torment
that is moving towards the good bye.
Harmony of colors
of motions
of words
and nothing changes this clear sky
that keeps sitten to the horizon
of this lost day!
Terminal 21 of a station.
Cold terminal,
in the winter.
There is a train that is coming
and so much love that is waiting.
There is an orange between two hands
and so much coldness.
And two hands peel the orange,
slowly, like a caress on the
skin.
Terminal 21, The train is here.
A few minutes of delay
but centuries for the one who
is waiting with love between his hands
and a little heap of orange peels
on the ground.
After this
there are many people that run,
that call...
There is one who loses himself
and after finds himself again.
After, nothing more,
only the silence and the winter.
So much time has passed,
a few instants only
for the one who has found no one
..and the man gives up
with the taste of an orange in his mouth
and the bitterness in his throat!
When you come back
to see the place of love
you will still feel my voice
singing from within itself.
It would say
that everything is the same as before
and if you cry
you'll see yet one time
the place of love
in the pupils of my eyes!
With your back turned
I don't know if it is you.
However, I look at you
and your hair is long.
I don't know if it is you,
you are turned
with your back towards me.
I don't see your face
only your back
your flanks
and your mustard colored jacket.
The backside is small like yours
and I watch it for a long time.
This might also be you
but
I am not sure.
The legs are thin
with a light swelling
towards your thighs
and at this point I have to say
when your back is turned
I don't have any doubt:
it is definitely you!
But what does it matter?
Now I want to come to see you.
If the face is yours well.. if not
even if in an absent-minded and detached way
I'll get you again on my mind
for the whole duration of the day.
Here they are
our twenty years.
Leave them there.
Now they are only resting.
Don't touch them.
Let us sit ourselves down here
and wait for their awakening.
Don't be afraid,
They will come back!
After, we notice
how happy we had been.
If he might know
what you need
after making love!
How...
how did he succeed having you?
The sleep leaves you
the taste of the emptiness
and what could he know about you?
He couldn't know how you are done,
from which sky to gather the stars
for your dreams,
from which sea ..the pearls for your skin.
How could he love you
if the only things he knows about love
are the borders and the end!
WHEN YOUR MOTHER IS SLEEPING
When your mother is sleeping
something tells you to keep silent,
neither bothering the air around you.
And you approach and watch her
with a goodness
that in the past you didn't know you had!
Your aged heart
still moves itself
feeling a new sudden love
for that poor nestled old woman
with a breath
that pushes your soul to tenderness.
She is your mother from the beginning!
She is the unique woman
that has always given you everything
and has never asked anything in return
and never has betrayed you!
How you'd like
to become a child right now
only to see again
the springtime on her face.
When your mother is sleeping
you lose the memory
that you are the same man
which only a few instants ago
while you were coming back to your home
with the torment of another day gone by,
you had cursed God,
life,
and the day you came into this world.
There is a house
at the district of the Pages.
They say that gulls of ideas
come here
to find the rest
of the loves that are dying.
Two lines of houses,
a streak of tar,
three skyscrapers,
a square:
the district of the Pages,
good and cruel,
opens itself to my eyes tonight
while alone like a dog,
I have come here
searching for you.
Here's my gull that circles in the air:
I recognize it,
I shout at it
I see it dissolving
while the district of the Pages
remains blinded
by a moon lighted like a fired sun
into a sky
painted of luminous tears as stars.
When love goes away
we stand up on our feet
and we take off our hat
with the fold of a smile
and swollen veins at the temples.
After, with our hands
we wrap our face
and cry.
Come on,
they have told me
that our most beautiful days
came to find us.
Don't take anything with you.
Leave the sad things in the town.
Board a cab.
Do come soon!
I'm waiting for you with my open heart.
I have with me one torch,
a small page of love
and fruits of the season:
this is all we need to be together.
Our most beautiful days
never will die.
You will learn this when
I will lift the torch
and its light will shine around us.
We will sate our hunger
with fresh and good fruit
and while I write a small page of love
you will see our days
the most beautiful days
proud and alive in our memory.
They will always follow us
when we are walking
and we will point to them
with our index finger
whenever we will have the need
because we have lived them
during our youth
so brief
and so mysteriously wonderful and great!
Learning to live the last night together
is like dying to the dawn
knowing the time in advance.
The rest of the last night
belongs to the dark
and describing it
would be craziness.
No memory in your mind,
only the last frame of the eyes
everlastingly imprinted
in your brain
like a flash of lightning
just after having turned off the light.
And you will find in the wind
his breath that follows you
that embraces the circumferences
of your unreal world
where you live and meet him!
And you will find in the sun
his power and his heat
and the light for your eyes
that see all the strength of his soul
when you love him.
Do love
and you will find him
next to your steps
behind your shade
near every lover
that will belong to you.
Call him
and he will be
where the air that keeps him
would fill your same breath
with his well
with his body
with each instant of waiting
with each moment of silence
and with each torment.
You will always find him
also in the rain,
when you cry,
and between tears and rain
you will live your winter
with time that is passing by
that kills the beautiful seasons
but it doesn't abandon you
reminding you of the craziness
of a hug without breath
ended still before
our opened mouths touched.
When the town disappoints us
often we leave for dreams
and hope replaces love
and life is
a continuous delusion.
UP
I enfolded myself in the sky
and covered myself with clouds.
I rained tears of the sea.
They were salty
like the wind
that dried them on my face
taking away the rest of the rain,
wetting the earth I am done with.
And from this earth
a flower of love is born
and I have embraced myself
searching the life of a hot sun
and I have found it
in the colors of a bee
that was flying to kiss the flower.
It was only the honey of my dreams
and I have nourished myself
with its nectar
until the night of the moon
has folded my eyes.
A man runs
with his car
along the whole town.
He is alone!
He is dead!
A prostitute,
a cup of coffee
and other things
Josephine,
my God,
why?
Who will it be?
A thief
a terrorist
a murderer
a man maybe
or someone else
that flees.
And where does he go?
Maybe he will place a bomb.
But where?
In the palace of justice or
under his house?
Perhaps under my house.
And so ..I'll have to sleep
outside.
But you,
Josephine, where are you?
I see you close to me
it doesn't matter
if you are an illusion
because your heart is
great
your hands are great
your breath
your world
is great
but the man
that is running with his car
maybe
doesn't know you exist.
Josephine,
go to him,
tell him
you never will go away
that you will always remain
with him,
that someday
you will make this town good
because you are good
like the glance of a shepherd
over the hill.
THE REFLECTED IMAGE
Come on.
Let's wash our hands in this
brook
and after, also our face.
Love of mine,
my reflected image
is only a pure delusion like
yours is.
We aren't there
we are real,
in the evening you won't see
anything anymore.
Nevertheless, the brook
is still there
no one has moved it
and right now
we are loving each other
and the delusion
at last defeated
drowns itself
in this brook
and finally
we aren't
a reflected image anymore.
HUMAN WINDMILL
Around you,
around me,
there is always someone
that is a winner
and someone that is
a loser
There also is a difference:
He who loses ( if he knows how
to lose)
knows that he is losing
and hopes to win someday,
and so his life goes on.
He who wins and believes
to win always,
If he loses ( because he will)
then he won't live anymore.
My cheerfulness arises here
and it doesn't matter
if here
there still is only a tepid
memory
like an autumn sunset
or maybe
it is the warm hand of dreams
that passes by
and never rests.
A memory lays down
near your mouth
and falls asleep like a baby
while I gather
the last delusion
in a kiss
of two unknown persons
and I keep it harbored
tightening it in my hands
like a pearl
until I reach my home.
If no one listens
no one has spoken.
If no one sees,
no one has moved himself.
Anyhow, I heard someone talking
and after kept silent.
I saw someone moving
and after disappeared.
It is maybe
the play of soul's shades
or perhaps
it is only
the loneliness:
our eternal and unique fellow
that never leaves.
Anyhow, there has to be
something somewhere.
Maybe at the end of the street
perhaps in the bottom of the
heart,
or at the bottom of a glass
filled with wine or
in the bottom of the butt
of a woman that gifts you
her soul and her life
and you are a stranger
on this earth and in the sky
where somewhere God
has to exist.
And somewhere
I want to abandon myself
allowing the wind to smother
me
dragging me away
and for an instant
I might find something that
I know
or someone that recognizes me
this is important to me,
anyhow,
I would have lived
somewhere.
Good evening!
Give me back
my smile.
No,
sit down please.
Don't look at me so.
My smile
is worth more than everything
in this world.
It is worth more than my life
and even more than yours,
it is my smile
that for a long time
you have stifled.
Mister...
you, Mister,
don't look behind!
You
with that horrible
white necktie,
white like a swallow,
one of those white swallows
like my smile.
Have you seen it perhaps passing
by?
You sat upon it I bet!
Then,
get up from your round butt
shaped for comfortable armchairs
and give it back to me.
Without my smile
I can't live.
I don't like playing with you,
I don't love cheating.
I only want what
once was mine
that which you have stolen
trodden
and derided.
Some time ago
while I was searching for it
among my memories
I didn't find it anymore
and like man
I lost hope
the ineluctable will
of time
would have made it perfect.
Why do you laugh
gentle Lady
so elegant
and so politely phony.
Don't confuse
like you are used to doing
your mediocre laughter
with my smile.
My smile,
my dear and kind Lady,
is another world
it is something more,
something that you don't know
and never will know.
The smile is like
a Cinderella with her tattered
dress.
It needs to be looked at from
inside
even if covered
from misery and dust.
Look...
I am laughing now,
because you get upset
in a bourgeois and refined way
but I don't smile
I can't
You, like others do,
like all people in the end do,
are too much engaged by your
time
that you don't know how to spend
or how to let it pass by
because the time of grudge
and of envy
is long and interminable
like an instant of life
lived bad.
Instead,
I am here
as a man of this time,
and I continue to stay here
with the will of being here,
also undressed like a worm,
as a man that undergoes everyday
your smile of velvety cynicism
and all that rests
is only a pale shimmer
and an unquiet shade.
It is in the end
the smile of death
the sole sense
of nothing,
the only aspect
of the naught
that is the dust
of which we are made.
Don't keep worrying about me
now
I'm going away.
Please, don't get up for me
I'm going away.
I know how to get there
alone
I don't need you
and forgive me
if I turned up here by mistake.
I believed to see
moving around you
the memory of her face
and I wanted back
forever, my smile!
He is a man
that hasn't anything.
He lost all
one evening,
foolishly
knocking at the door of dreams.
For a long time,
for years maybe
he waited for someone to open
it.
In the meantime,
many things happened
around him
and there was little left
for him in this life.
He is a man
that hasn't memories
because the time that lacks
reaching it
goes faster
and they say
soon
in our towns
there won't be room
for any memory.
He is a man
that hates all of this
but
he hasn't any strength to give
a price to his anger
for this
every evening
he is waiting
for the lover of heaven.
While he is sleeping,
she lays next to him,
caresses his face
his skin
his hair
and leads him
on her bed of stars
and love with her
confuses itself
with notes of her song
until the morning of spring!
When the town is bitter
we forget everything,
also love and the wish to give up
gets the unique creed
of a rebellion without hope.
UP
Where are you going Peter?
Here, there is no place for anyone.
Where are you running now?
Everything is filled
like a second class carriage.
In the outskirts
the poor people bore everyone
with their seamy adventures.
Stay here,
Going is useless.
The conventional people
are yet more boring
upon their stilts of refined money.
It is enough
they stumble an instant
to see themselves covered with shit.
Peter, maybe there is no place
on this earth for you
but don't die now,
do wait!
If those like you die,
tell me,
who remains to sing
the sharp madness
that our time is living!
For you, what is
one more day of life
on this earth!
One hour on this
run down and landless earth
doesn't dare eternity.
The hours bore themselves
and the solitude often
descends near men
that don't know
dying together with others.
My love,
you are alone tonight,
you have returned
to my ground of memories
where you want to enter
as you are too intent
keeping the scent of your flowers.
I,
the flowers...
I look at them
I bite them
I tighten them
and after,
only a few of them remain.
For me,
living a day less
is what makes me feel alive,
free to spend all of the time
left in my pockets.
Time passes by
time cancels all things
but it doesn't stop anything
and it doesn't destroy.
It always remains
the pitiful chain of a queen
disappointed
for keeping her virginity
in a night of love.
Time drags
time heals
but it doesn't stand still
and a king throws his crown
going to see
how much this earth is worth
without love
and without a throne.
Serenata
of a different young boy
to an ill disposed God
but tenaciously
the notes flow out
and irritate the weather.
It is raining now.
" I am a son of yours my God,
so,
give me my friend.
In the evening
a young gay
is looking for his death.
People say
he was playing
with a soft voice
on the tram line
a lifeless,
desperate,
monotonous, song
without any theme.
Strong wind of February
do pull me out.
Make me see from high above
how this world appears.
After that,
leave me
where the music
stuns ears
and the kiss of a female
can eternally consume
my body and my mind
and where death is a dream
whose nightmare is life.
He is Jesus Christ.
He feels himself like Jesus
Christ.
But he also is Saint Thomas
or some other saint.
He is a very strong man
but also very weak.
They say he really was a great
man
before knowing you,
before you loved him,
before he loved you.
In conclusion,
before you killed yourselves.
Now he takes it in his arse
all days.
After he starts saying
he descended from the sky
to prevent love among men.
Sometimes
he feels himself like Judas
and for this he gashes
his own face.
After he reminds us
of what he did
betraying Jesus
when he loved Him so much.
Now they have shut him up.
I went visiting him
talking about you a long time
until I felt tired.
He watched me and said,
" Forget her! "
After, between a glance and
a grimace
he blessed my love.
Soldier.
Soldier in war.
The winter.
The overcoat,
heavy overcoat.
The cold
that takes away the breath,
this darn cold
that freezes the ears
the nose
the air
the thought.
Far soldier..
scattered..
small...
his mother
his friend
the enemy
the war
the fucked war
the war that doesn't care.
The snow
the fear
the sweat of the fear
the fear to finish
into a book of history
like a number
or to be remembered
by an Altar of Country.
Soldier in war
true
human
hero
defector
craven
with all his memories
with the will to keep alive
while the enemy is there
and thunders
like an obsess!
He,
the dreamer!
Never get the wish to follow
him.
He goes wherever he wants
and would never come with you.
He is a serious man
and when he talks
first he thinks
and doesn't attempt guessing.
His dreams are beautiful.
They are dreams of a dreamer!
Dreams that you,
metropolitan citizen
never would have.
The dreamer,
when he is a good man,
is really good
and if he wants to burn
your castle of paper
he does
without thinking twice.
He doesn't like playing
and when he suffers,
he really suffers.
Sometimes
he feels bad
listening to gibberish
on social justice
or common moral
and he feels like vomiting
anywhere he is
because the dreamer
doesn't shame
to vomit on the ground
or in your sacristy
I mean
in your world
kept like a sacristy.
He only knows
the harsh taste of death
and when he stakes his life
he does
without trembling,
with his closed fists
and without regret!
In this way or wildly.
It doesn't matter where
and in which way
even here
on the damp pavement of the
street.
Don't stop
even if now
I don't follow
your movements anymore
because my thoughts go beyond
your flushed thighs
and your tummy
that you push ferociously
against mine.
Stronger my sweet whore.
What matters
if the world goes backwards.
Does perhaps your body embank
the impetuous waves of selfishness?
Can I ever get leverage
of human justice
prey of hyenas and bitches in
heat?
Can we tonight
together
cancel the meanness
of the world
and stop
the instant of good times
in the eyes of a little boy?
Maybe a little attentive painter
is painting in vain
this impossible day
and already leaves his canvas
going to see
this unjust and untruthful town.
But tonight
I want to think
only of your body
inebriating tiredness
and forgetting myself,
forgetting you
forgetting all,
Traveling
looking for the most important
thing.
The fight.
The need to fight just for fighting.
The fear.
The fear of the fight.
The purposelessness .
The panic of the purposelessness
of the fight.
A sad comeback
looking again
for the less important thing.
The time.
The time that lacks.
The fear of not being in the
right time anymore.
The less important thing
acquires now
the meaning of life.
It is important now!
It is more important than everything.
The fight again now
for dying
without despair in the soul.
Tell me
if you love like I do
the color of the night,
the prickly taste of the night
when trombonists of province
sleep.
Tell me
if you feel like being loved
wrapped in the color of the
night,
if you love my kisses
throughout your body
while the false clothes
of day rest because
the night doesn't need any myth.
Tell me if the taste of the night
fulfills your hunger and your
thirst
like it fulfills
my soul and mind.
Tell me
if tomorrow
you will refuse
the sun of the wise men
and push away
the deep experts of the human
soul
so that you won't feel cold
anymore
because I
and only I
could heat you
with the heat of night.
Who are you?
I look for you,
I wait for you,
I see you.
Who are you?
Surely not Lena
nor Fannie.
Who are you?
Anyhow, you are there
waiting for me
looking for me,
watching me.
You climb into my car.
Who are you?
Young,
you're so young and beautiful.
Who are you?
You have such pink skin,
such a sweet smile
that hurts my heart.
You wait for my money
and I slam my head
violently on the steering wheel
without having
any strength left
to talk to you.
It is always the same.
It never changes.
I have you and maybe another
You have me and maybe another.
A few words
one glance
kisses and solitude
the nude bodies
the love as revenge
on a bad and stubborn world,
the end,
and after,
the cursed will
to go away.
It's pleasing thinking
tomorrow
I might give up everything
and go away
but now I am here
and I want to get dressed
cutting my beard,
washing my hair and my body.
I want to surround myself
with happy planets.
In the pockets of my jacket
I'll keep a pair of sunsets,
and a little of the Italian
sea,
some instant of sun
and traces of wind.
It shouldn't lack wine
and a little bit of rice
salad
It is pleasant thinking
tomorrow
I might not be here
but tonight I am still alive
and want to be happy.
I want to go outside
with a hat in my hands
keeping there
the respect of feelings
and the muzzle of a little dog,
my cigarettes,
a song by Brel
and a moment of your hair.
It shouldn't lack
some instant of love
and a little frozen beer.
I'll keep searching
for a park bench
and I will sit
with my hands in my pockets
and the hat on my head
then I'll keep
laughing and singing
looking at the sky for a long
time.
No one like me
tonight
can look
at the sky so long.
Looking at the sky for a long
time
is very hard
when you're looking for God
or for a reason
whatever it may be.
It is pleasant thinking
tomorrow I might be
in a world without
any time anymore
and tonight
I might live
my last birthday.
When the town tires,
you notice that life and the things
you love are only desperate points
that join themselves dizzily
till they form the circle of boredom
waiting for the end.
UP
Summer afternoon!
Between boredom and smoke
the air in here
is getting spoiled.
The flies on your breasts
don't let you sleep.
You and him
in bed
during the summer
with sweat on your bodies.
The forehead and hands
are covered with a damp sweat
that sticks the sheets
to your flanks.
In the summer
you and him
together
with the flies
that torment your sleep.
An off key engine
takes away the silence
and a wish to end all
is born in the air.
A wish to scream,
to smoke...
but the heat oppresses you
and it seems useless
that the nervous springs
of your bodies
try to brush off the flies
that finely prick your skin
And the blame for this
is given to the summer
to the heat
to the sweat
to the wish to do something new
great
strange
and you keep staying there
with your insignificant problems
of poor intellectuals
with love paid with bills
and the eternal pleasure's problems
while these squeamish flies
bother your dreams
caught again
from deep within your memory.
You and him
in the summer
as if dead
here
searching for the love
that won't come
while he takes to masturbate you
wearily
while your hand fell asleep
on his penis
and the flies
that don't stop for one moment
buzzing,
buzzing,
buzzing,
Damn!!
I saw you going away.
I saw you
moving your things with indifference.
Outside it was raining.
It was our winter
that accompanied in silence
our tired good-bye.
I saw you filling your luggage.
You haven't forgotten anything.
I tried to smile at you,
to dab your hair,
to hold your hands,
after I helped you
and I saw you going away.
My lingering glance followed
your steps
until you reached the street
connected with the horizon,
then I sat down,
lit a cigarette,
and before it ceased raining
I fell asleep.
Not here,
It hurts too much.
Only a bed of grass and stars
is what I want.
Not here,
my eternal friend,
not anymore,
Only when complete
will the hour of the night descend
I'll look for sleep
that gives peace.
There is no one!
the stones, the houses, the
cars.
There is no one!
The dreams, the words, the hopes
then the the certainty.
There is no one!
The crying, the joy, the love,
the end.
There is no one!
The years, the time that passes
by, the silence, the death.
There is no one!
But who lived in this house?
The silence spoke
when I already had turned my
shoulders.
No one listened to the reply.
Before falling asleep
I go away
and than I come back
in the morning only
when I awake,
and strongly feel
more of life
coming less,
diminishing
the strength of living
our daily death.
Woman of outskirts
so irksome and irreverent
No, I haven't anything
against you.
Believe me,
I love you.
I love your impossible day
lived with courage and fear.
I love your certainty
of a better day
and your resignation
when you get disappointed.
Woman of outskirts
so shameless and true hearted
so candid and so normal.
Don't offend yourself
I care for you
although you wear
your absurd red lipstick
and that incredible dress
bought at the mall.
You made me feel bad
today
asking me for love.
No woman ever approached me
the way you did.
Woman of outskirts
so simple and true,
so feminine.
I so mentally compressed
by false hidden repressed loves.
Woman of outskirts,
my woman,
you don't know how
I lived the love till now.
Don't get upset with me.
I still have with me
your acidulous laughter
as I said to you
we weren't in the right place
at the right time
and I gave up
because I'm not used
to the truth
of a spontaneous love moment
anymore.
Forgive me,
woman of outskirts,
forgive me!
To the door of time
I stopped.
Not a step
neither glancing through it.
I have seen your back
and your profile
outlining themselves
and after that disappearing.
To the door of time
I have sowed my love
like a farmer
on hopeless lands.
To the door of time
I sat
waiting for your comeback
while the time
closed its doors
on my face
upon all my body
wrapped in the shade.
It is him.
It is simply him.
Ahead of you.
He is tired.
He worked.
He wants to sleep,
but he can't.
He can't do it
because you are eating.
And he looks at you
while you are eating
smiling
dressing
undressing
and dressing again
and he sees you
going outside.
Then he falls asleep
waiting for your comeback.
After,
simply
like he always does
he waits for his dinner
and watches you
cooking
preparing
serving him
and he smiles at you
with the simplicity
that he always keeps with you,
with the simplicity
you loved
and love
and he looks at you
then he embraces you
and goes to sleep.
And you watch him
washing his face
undressing
smoking his cigarette
reading a book
turning off the bed lamp .
Some day,
maybe among two ..or three...
simply ...so..
both of you
will kill yourselves!
How hard it is
dying among the people
when death
is the gesture
and the words
of men without sense,
the same ones
that look at you
with the wise eyes
of civility.
My God
accept in your hands
this sorrow:
by night
everything can disappear
except the anxiety
of being trapped!
Leave the poet in peace
wherever he is.
Nude or dressed
awake or sleeping
he never is like he seems to
be,
like you want him to be.
He is always elsewhere
and always on the other side.
He isn't turning his shoulders
to you
he is just calling for you.
Don't see his tears
he is happy.
He never loves only one thing
because he would die.
Leave the poet as is.
The poet is always tired
this is why, sometimes,
he keeps
the sweet vice
of killing himself slowly,
because for him, life
is living constantly
his own death.
I don't feel anything.
I don't bear anything.
I don't perceive any smell.
I don't see anything,
anyhow, I'm alive
like a desert without sand.
Anyhow, I'm alive
like a bed without lovers.
Anyhow, I'm alive
like a man
without himself anymore.
I'm a tired man.
Leave me alone.
Don't love me.
Don't you see your love
is killing me?
Your caring annoys me.
I'm a tired man
without food
without money
without hunger
without hope and without dreams.
What do you want?
Don't look for me.
I want only to sleep.
Don't you see that
I don't even try to embrace
you?
I neither try to speak,
to listen to you,
or to se