STILL LIFE

THE GREEN CLOTH

There is a feeling
laying
on a green cloth
unfolded on a kitchen table.
It doesn't know any season
nor time
and probably
the time of the day
either.
But it is there
and this is important.
I don't know
what kind of feeling
it could be.
All I know is
that it's shaking
between a crust of bread
and one rotted orange.

A forgotten chair
beside  a window
sees through the glass
the sense of today that flies.

It is a chair made with fine wood
a wood destined
to last in time
and this is the sense of tomorrow.

But someone got up
and went away
as I see a shade
leaning on my memories.

It's a hesitant shade
and not well delineated
slowly going away
then disappears
forgetting
the chair
and its fine wood
and all the rest
and this is the sense
of the past,
all that we leave
behind our shoulders
without waiting
for any comeback.

Paranoid disposition
of some crystal glasses
placed by a luxurious buffet.
The hallucination
of a meaningless welfare
strains the glance.
They are so precise and perfect
they scare you
They seem like soldiers
ready to shout
and then the fear
catches up with me.
Those cursed
glasses made of
true crystal
where no one
ever drinks
because they are precious
like the rich and indifferent society.
Better to drink
from a normal
green supermarket glass.
It can get smothered,
can fall
can get broken
can be thrown away
unlike the crystal glasses
that struggle with this
without  noticing
that they are precise
and perfect
in their paranoid disposition
and how strange it is
to see
their reflexes of enchantment
like the rainbow
with the thunderstorm
still alive.
 
 

Two small grapes
and nothing more.
It's a pale Autumn
like a woman's body
without the love of the sun.
Your features
imprecise and unperfected
like the deformation of a dream
get annoyed
from a platter
of varied fruits
where you can see
two nipples
as two small grapes
and nothing more.

HOTEL CRUCIFIX

The stylized shade
of a crucifix
on a wall
of a hotel room
was a lightening
in my brain!

I don't care to know
whether you are
the son of God
but the sorrow I feel
is endless.

RESEARCH OF AN IMAGE

A cigarette lighted
a glass of wine
and two slices of watermelon
give the idea
of what is alive.
But this image is common,
too common.
Trying
to hold the time
we  have
to smoke the cigarette,
eat the watermelon
and drink the wine
all this at the same time
but honestly
this gives the idea
of what we use up in a hurry
as a love
that gets scattered in the smoke,
and drowns in the wine.
But a cigarette extinguished
or not lighted
a glass empty
or not filled
two red lips
as two slices of watermelon
not eaten
or not cut at all
is still more depressing:
It is the image of the emptiness.

STAINS

Stains
under the clothe of your skin,
on the walls of your heart,
on the heart of your love
on your chest
on the colors
of this disappointed sky
like the end of a dance
the end of a film
the end of a life
the end of a war
when the war is lost
because the war never
has winners
and holds its everlasting stain
that enlarged itself
and hides our horrible pains
in the darkness.

ELECTRONIC LOVE

A lighted blue Stereo
with the magic of dancing leds
polished,
sharpened
with care
and meticulousness.
Who are you?
A stereo to see
to listen to,
to love,
cold and exact
like a computer.
The scent of a woman
has past a short time ago
but you remain lighted
to sing about love
strangely resembling
a new kind of loneliness,
and a new kind of love
for the lonely.

PIERROT

     From always
a drop of love
is steady on your face.

Tonight
I'll take it off,
white Pierrot of mine
that looks at me
from a bookshelf
and on your lips
I'll place
a smile.

It's hot!
It's very hot!
As a fragment of paradise
I can see a blue stripe
on a pullman:
"AIR CONDITIONED"
Walking strangers
that hamper the street,
that make traffic,
that make noise,
that make it hot too!
And you came back on my mind
when I was waiting for you
in July
wearing your blue cloth
as a fragment of paradise,
with your big smile on your mouth
as a blue stripe
on a pullman.

It was a Carnival
or at least
it should have been.
In the great living room
just  for
great meetings
you placed
your joyful banners
and startup papers
of many colors
wishing to amaze your friends

You made everything perfect
like a beautiful and happy fable
because only in  fables
are there
good and happy stories
and you smiled
showing your white teeth
as dreams of a baby
loved and protected.

You couldn't know
that no one would come
and you remained there
looking at your banners
and your star shaped papers
while staring at a bad calendar,
as in the fables
because above all in fables
there always are bad men,
reminding you that you weren't wrong.
It was really
the Carnival day
and you went outside
as you were
distractedly
stripped from your dreams
nude
under the rain
without the dreams
of your dresses
leaving your delusion
to the great living room.

Intense Colors
like your eyes,
eyes the seem
imprinted in the light,
the summer light
that shakes branches of trees
at the horizon
fooling your eyes
as apples that seem
to go out of a frame
filling up this room
with scarlet vermilion
and dark green.

Intense colors
like the features
of your naked body
in the the dust
traced by the sun
while with my hands
I protected red apples
ready to fall on the floor.

Your clothes
one by one
for each season
for each love
you wear all of them
at the same moment
with your  glance,
with your heart
while with your hands
you graze your body
delicately
and in your room
one by one
your clothes
like your dreams
draw perfect geometric shapes.

PORTRAIT OF A BETRAYED WOMAN

I met your eyes
in our bed.
They looked at me
questioning and forbearing.
My eyes disappeared quickly
covered by guilty eyelids,
then you turned on your back
and I believed to see
your shoulders
shaking as you sobbed.
Maybe you were crying
I could not know
because I tightened myself
with remorse in my sheets
without trying to watch you
without trying to say a word
with my eyes hidden
till morning.

Tic tic.
Toc toc.
It is not an alarm clock.
It is only a little finger
of a hand,
a simple tireless little finger
that plays unremittingly
on the edge of a dinner plate.
All this is really droll
and pathetic
but we can also say
very amusing
because we need to know
that tic tic
or toc toc
is a new language
modern
actual
and surely
it means something.
But who listens to it?
Certainly not the air:
it is spoiled
and knows only
the lifeless notes of time
that passes by.
But the little finger
already furious
grows its monologue
and someone now
seems to be listening
then sits and starts
cracking fingers
casually
finding out
the proper rhythm
for a new and different life.
Slowly
musically
a new song
takes place
maybe it is a melody
something already known
somewhere
and this play keeps on
till madness sets in.

CUT WIRE OF AN ANTENNA

The wire of an antenna
that is cut
gives you
the idea
of something
that breaks up
your thought.
Well,
to understand better
let's restart.
The thought was born
in my mind
namely
from the roof
of my home
and walked
reclining
as a wired idea
along the wall.
I believed
it was my thought
but I was wrong,
it was instead
the wire of the antenna
that kept walking
logically
on its own
entering into the hole of love
ohh darn..
I want to say
into the hole of a wall
already built
like the society.

The problem was
that my television
waited for the wire of the antenna
which, after being cut
became too short
like a discourse
of a tired wall
ohh darn..
I want to say
of a tired love
and,
lastly
I have finished
to mix up
my thought
with the wire of the antenna
and felt like a tv
without any real images,
with the colors of a nonexistent world,
without any meaning,
without valor,
dead to all!

I got punctured
taking a rose.
Drops of blood
from an extinguished heart
covered the keys
of an old Olivetti
palpitating no more
for anything or anyone.
Papers,
hamburgers.
The perfection of the beauty
in my symphony long playing.
A lightning by Mozart and a smile by Rossini.
A flutter by Verdi and an impulse by Wagner.
So
melted with a dying world
I took the thorn from my finger
and put in in my side
to be as you are
for one instant only
beautiful and perfect rose
that along your stalk
you let us know
the prize of  beauty.

A letter of good-bye
is always and always
a letter of good-bye
even though
we won't read it.
Sometimes
it is good
not to read it at all.
It may be found
on a chair
as well as on a table,
also under the door
of your room
with a white piece
jutting out.
Often
it is laid
on the bed
or on a pillow
where traces of hair
remind you of a recent act of love.
It may be
a letter written quickly,
long or short
it isn't important,
at the bottom
two words are enough.

The bed is messed
and the blankets
also touch the floor.
The shape of a body
is impressed on the sheets.
Who wrote
also rested
and maybe cried.
A shutter of the closet
is opened
because of something
that has been taken in a hurry
and ashes are on the floor.
It seems all can be remedied
except for the letter
that is there
protected by the mystery
almost untouchable
a few steps from us
and it looks at us
with two big dark eyes
deep
made perfect
by a sweet glance
It is a good idea
to make the room neat soon
then closing the shutter
of the closet
and if it is necessary
moving the letter someplace,
on a night stand maybe
or wherever you want drop it.
At last
we can take the last snap
to pretend that nothing
has changed
that all the things
have stopped,
like in a picture of still life,
when yesterday
still glad
the last smiles
were trying to dance
just a little.
A click,
a quick look at all things
getting just enough time
to close the door of the room
and to go away.

Snapshot n.41

Life was born from the sea.
Sea has the blue of the sky
Sky gets melted in the sea.
Life returns to the sky.