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JOURNAL
TO MY DAUGHTER
Those lean paths that ennoble man - I've walked them all like a wretch, alone or with some demon like me. Remorse stung beneath my feet and I felt I was born to bleed. My father told me "you must wear a whore's face!" But I wasn't born to be a whore, I was born to bleed. I crossed them with lifeless eyes, shoulders heavy with self-pity, bent like a villain wandering to sow shame. Of all the damned seasons, there isn't one I haven't crumpled like a wrong page.
I know those paths, but I won't take you there. I want to see you advance without friction, without moving a muscle except in your mouth that only laughs and chews generous mouthfuls of conquests. I'd like to see you one day climbing up ambitions, without a scratch on your thighs, with those still-clean hands that once fit in my palm, gathering the fruits of all the damned seasons.
Se hai dubbi su specifiche scelte di traduzione, sono qui per discuterne.
THE ELDERLY
The elderly walk with eyes turned backwards and memories in their mouth. At the mere intuition of death, they regurgitate existences and lay down lives in ears, like an inheritance. I, who habitually grow passionate and obey the law of the gut, notice, unfailingly, and take care to squeeze out meaning, like sap, finally wavering, saturated with experience and places, and affections, suspended, a foreigner in my body, between one life, mine, and a thousand others I would have wanted to live.
WINE AND TWINE
If you barely spot me with wine increasing the dose, you don't waste a chance to profit for the flesh. Remote you watch me, pierce me, clutch me and bind me to your darkened heart. Those arms like a snake wrap around me like twine so you lead me, beautiful and rapacious and poisonous, where others cannot imagine, yielded, to strip even my bones. And I, of fleeting worth, assimilate the poison, slowly, while red you tear apart my flesh.
FLOATING
When I was just a child, to teach me how to swim, they threw me in the sea without warning, as if to say: "survive, you'll find a way." At first, I was in an alien place, not comfortable at all. I saw that bit of water as if it were an abyss, and my kicking legs tried to climb it like a ladder without rungs. Endless. That water was a monster that swallowed me, a fierce beast.
Then, with time, I began to understand that even motionless my body floated. And I floated. I floated as if I had returned to water, proud like a tamer, convinced I had tamed it. Later I understood that the water had always been itself and it was I who adapted to it, domesticated.
RESIDUES
I am the product of a reciprocated love, the consequence of two individuals. Thrown as fodder to life, fruit out of season and out of place, I feel polluted. A sediment of social waste, a regrettable remnant of progress.
THIRST
In the act of burning the earth, I couldn't explain the euphoria even to the most erudite among men. Slippery, escaping hands in embraces, heretical in your word, among darting flames my servitude dissolves in a frightened dance of locusts where all is creatures' torment. In the ashen curtain that mind has become, I wet my throat with dubious words and that water, as putrid as vital, that dripped like frogs into my body, is now in the drought the blood I spit. In the darkness where I vegetate. In this rain of fire on hearts of ice I don't look beyond an instant, the instant that is end. I tried to quench my thirst with your words. Now gather these martyrs and you'll discover how much I've drunk.
THE LOVE OF A COWARD
I have often fallen in love with love. The tough, miserly kind that reeks of possession. The love of cowards, the patriarchal kind. I have often fallen in love with love and not with whom I loved, to the point of making it a purgatory. I thickened my bars with apparent composure, smelling of sowing, revealing myself sole in beginning and end, and of wrath making chains so there would be no other seed. Thus Poor in vigor I lived your love and with abundance of pleasure occupied the body. Naked and greedy for your blood I died of desire shrouded in a sumptuous Shroud. I have often fallen in love with love and died of passion. An elegant death.
ASHES
Never, ashes in my garden, I yearn to find you yielding to the wind, fragile dust of memory that bars my breath. Never, ashes in my garden, that rise and settle at air's will, bitter on lips as in heart. Never, you who were written page, I yearn to find you ashes, prostrate at myrtle's feet, slowly, to be reborn as His.
A ROOM I REMEMBER
Your abundant silhouette endures, survivor of sea salt and pigeon guano, in the middle room. Returning, propitious mid-morning light, favorable to chicory cleaning. Then, in the blade's pause, your small eyes at the altar of the past. There, where now lies a sepulcher of rubble, you called them all to me, each time, so much that they seem alive. There's not a single noise. There's no cookie tin, no worn rag, no smell of parsley. The vaults fall silent, sustained by your echo.
MEMORIES OF A SETTLER
It seems it happened in March. That choir of mute angels, singers of subdued moans, urged me to cross the threshold still half in dream. I didn't understand the delight for Venus, that need for muted love. I closed my eyelids with restraint and became bursting water. All the way to the fields. A few rats turned their gaze, and barely, an exhausted wanderer. Then, the cicadas in a disharmonious sonnet, veiled in the passing of tractors. The settlers, so valiant, seemed to me soldiers in caravan. Warriors with wrinkled faces who infuse life and do not take it. It was then, in the moment I allowed myself a dream, that I devoted myself to Saint Isidore.
THE GOOD ACTOR
My name resounds in ladies' chests. Ladies widowed of another name when I cross the wing, reincarnated. You don't know the pain of losing oneself. Too many souls I've possessed, being everyone and no one, dying at every change. You don't know the disgust of being reborn, each time, just to please you. Don't think me grateful. I eat indigestible fame and my life consumes itself in few acts. My window is a proscenium. My existence a stage in reverse, of dark wings and light in the audience. Unwitting actors, directed by fate, you show yourselves in an open-air theater, in the redundant comedy of yourselves, buying bread, paying a bill, kissing in secret. I have infinite lives. I die a thousand times, and you just once.
MY HOUSE
If you came to my door, should I be a warning, I'd tell you to reject me. Not to inhabit me. My house is settled on rotten occasions, on pillars of betrayed ideals. I have a garden, my daughter, broadcast-sown with compromises, a pond of swallowed toads and an orchard of good intentions. Vanish from this necropolis, this hermitage of lowered gazes and fly over the land I've ravaged. Choose your army well and fight with blade and intellect, for existence is a platoon of failures. Make your way into hearts, be a good person and you won't be alone a single day.
WHO WOULD THIS MAN BE
Listless is time passing, especially if it has something to heal. I don't hate time passing, that makes trains missed desertifies moments, that separates. So tell me who would this restless man be, in this reliquary of dust and things if nothing is outside of now. I am a mosaic of rarefied lives, of remembered smells of almost tangible existences. Time passing leaves sanctuaries behind telling itself inside me like a sadistic minstrel. I don't hate time passing especially if it has something to fear and violent it occurs in the present and thins my fog and ungirds me.
IF I TRY TO FORGET YOUR NAME
How dark is love's reason? How solemn is the right to death, since I approach the grave if I try to forget your name. If I try to forget your name, incautious I venture at abyss's edge floundering like a clumsy Christ. If I try to forget your name, I land on oblivion's shores, beach your ship and from its planking make a cross. If I try to forget your name, wandering castaway in few steps, I'm but an awkward Christ painted by brackish light on a canvas of southwest wind. If I merely suppose, to forget your name.
ADMIRAL
I show myself at times, due to my disarmament, only at day's end. In a mirror of stagnant water, I sail at dusk on a nutshell, mixed with the voice of waves, like a fallen Admiral, obeying myself with clean face. Clandestine in myself, before the world, I undertake a journey of search. Adrift, without a single port and solitary, I realize I'm already dead flesh. I spoke to turned men, emptied. How could I miss myself, if I didn't even miss my neighbor? Not even a lit lighthouse to do me justice. So I too fall silent, when earth falls silent, for grief wants no noise.
HER SCENT
Don't rise, yet. Let me imagine you mine, here, where no one has slept, where night, merciless, does not desist. You are, I know, a spectre, but vice has been my master since I remember a step. "Until the sun rises, for love is death". I obey. You left me trembling, in the body where I live that now is a bed of straw and excrement. This is what I am now. She left nothing but her scent.
A VEGETABLE GARDEN
I came to life, in the blade of light bursting through glass, bald as I still see myself in mirrors. I don't remember, the then-present. Not a fragment of image. Naked of a sense of self, it's a passing, the repression of thoughts, to a blurred and incomplete instant. A turbid figure, my father, while I sink hands into earth, silent, in a gaze that is farewell. No Father, before. These are the years of sparkling sky, that so bewitches me, of a demon calling to courage. No Father, before. At the pruning of bonds I feel him, latent, buried by the past I set out to live to which I consigned memory.
THE SWORD
Sacred is man's foundation. Master of himself, at will of an anthropomorphic God, from wherever you look he is faint, cowardly in peace as in war, prone to genuflect when alone he's not enough. Sacred, you tell me, is the square of soil framed by four walls where my mourning should subside. I confined within doctrine's fences, in naive times, my right to knowledge, with breaths on violated pages. For us, meek beings, spirit became man. For us tamed ones. Here it is, like black doves, the sword of reason, the privilege I free today.
THE TREE
Remember a naked tree? No more buds have I seen top despite endless rains of love. Were I a luxuriant soul I'd sate you with my own fruits but arid and bare my branches induce tears, like resin to heal. At a symposium of firm earthly certainties you'd hold open court. Firm I have roots in denial and not even a miserly chalice at my table. I'd give you white flowers, were I an almond tree at the first chatter of swallows. But in perpetual winter no flight or fragrance. Seek me at first cold, like wood for your fireplace and I'll surely burn with regrets. Turn now and toast, I beg you, to my rest.
IF YOU WATCH ME AGE
If you watch me age you won't truly wither. From wounded paving stones you'll see a fountain and under wrinkled skin swaths of burnished iron. Don't mind my ground spirit, rust is one layer over another. Paternal bark. Don't make a trade of love. If you love me there's no sun that dries me, but a broken corolla smells of too many and I am drying up. Turn to a hawker's face and escape need's fingers. Let me drip with caresses and I'll fill my basin from which you may draw when arid and cold you'll have given me to memory. You know lovers' affairs, destined to waste away. Let's not lose an hour for an hour of absence is one drop less.
I WILL SAVE YOU
Of the twilight you await I don't know the color, for I never had the honor to paint it. Not even from the wind comes news, not even wanting to invent it. It's a clot of guilt that settles, ingloriously, as if covering my good intentions. You'll be the current in my tomorrow to polish today's silt. I will make myself light, I will make myself suspension and, in the turbid sea of my choices, I will save you.
THE LAST
You can hear hatred's roar, where cognition does not dwell. You see it, the monster, conceived from your seed, pregnant, naked, huddled on the earth you stole from it. From the clique of learned ones rise spears of judgment. From those who Know, who know man. And I? I caressed it like any Judas, showing it the world through deceit's eyes. Fakir on your perfidy is the Last. Raise your spears and to the last among the last we shall give account.
AS THE LAST TIME
I'm at Babylon's gates, before the water. The same as last time, whose grace joins eyelashes. It still induces me, your absent motion, to be crystal stele in the mausoleum of sorrows that in time I've laid down. With foam hands tear me from abandonment, from the garden of voids irrigated with judgment and loving dedication. Honor me with sincere applause that burying anger I thought I'd gather, ward off the advent of seducing ghosts. Persuade me, then, in a voiceless song and I won't be Ulysses, this time. Not even a thread of light I'll let in, for light dissuades and heals.
DEW
I love taking you through the fields, especially in morning. I contemplate your feet wearing the earth, with child's eyes and man's whim, in first sun's warm breath. Your shoulder moistened by sweat, like leaves and buds all around, imprudently leaves the dress, timidly. Boundless beauty that escapes glances, at the farmer's enchanted face. A distracted caress in my favorite spot and suddenly it's hiding, nature within nature, where all is home air.
I DON'T SEE MYSELF
In my body I don't see myself. Right now, in this moment, beyond my wet eyes, beyond what I believed, I remain latent to myself since rain has purged every pale residue of faith. I feel it in sighs, gloomy, my absence, yet so comely, it makes itself indispensable like rarefied air at high altitude and no more, the views before me, shine with my joy.
TERRACES
And crows fly over me, while my eyes shatter on walls and I struggle to push beyond my house's peak, equal to all other houses that without any right, making me prisoner in open spaces, hide horizons from me, extinguishing my gaze and that gleam of infinite illusion, leaving me hermit in the urban tundra of your possessions.
I HAVE LOVED YOU
I exist, hesitate, venture into the obscene silence you left under the purple vault of my regret. I have loved you in silences and waits, watching you from the height of my heart and unto infinity, from the highest bulwark of my indecency. Never found I more maternal shelter than your breath and I could inhibit its memory until your body appears indigestible in gusts of an aberrant effluvium. Crossing the clear skies of the hinterland only dust seems eternal to me and the horde of cutting words that pierced me. Those sharp shadows, that became one, faded fall from walls under a rain of lies and my nails sink carving my flesh as if it were stone. Of an empire only ruins, colors and laments, in a round of wind and leaves.
ANY NIGHT
I dreamed of not consuming myself, watching over common sense and time's flow. With the aim to investigate and find myself I brushed, feeling its roughness, that suburban discomfort, typical of misfits, that subsides in cushion folds and makes sleep intolerable as vain, penetrating my sides and startling me awake, as soon as eyes begin to cease, showing me the decay to which existence is destined. And here past times wrap, like a moviola, revealed, in sudden light and dark, in the compelling unconsciousness of a good boy. I dreamed of preserved talents, dreamed in full moon, of satisfied gazes. And now awake, half stunned, I discover myself in what remains and what lies ahead, of miserable making, and incomplete.
BELOW DECK
There's nothing that can serve us, out there, beyond those greasy windows, except to untie us ruinously from the lover's knot of our bodies, as one does with sheets and halyards if the wind, like the breath of your mouth, calms, lowering us into the most tedious calm and bringing us adrift in a sea of ugliness, breaking the course of our moments.
Passion is a hair between wet fingers, hostile to coming off, that insinuates itself, time after time in different places, the more convulsive the way to rid yourself of it. Don't move, let yourself be governed, desire is an inextricable rope.
PLEASURE
Listen Marta, you asked me for a reason to stay. I have no reasons to stay, but I have reasons to take pleasure. For instance, I like hearing water being poured, more satisfying than quenching thirst itself. More than caring about the space that separates, I enjoy the sound of my steps so much as to annihilate the joy of arriving. The intermittent scratch of the dragging pen brings me benefit more than the written thought. My attention denies any oblivion of actions, bringing me into the act and tearing me from motive like a dog receiving a caress. Every intrusive event, in these stupid daily rituals, is a boom that throws open eyelids and distracts you from pleasure's privilege. Be present to yourself, Marta, move slowly. You cannot take pleasure without wanting to.
MOTHER EARTH
I watch her change this land of familiar paths, permeated with subdued pain, when the sun approaches her as if to caress. I recognize birds' voices and know where every stone lies while I cut wind between bare and clustered trunks, in the hour of long shadows. It weighs on my chest, the sacrifice of the fig tree on tar, of tufts bleached by poisons and of hedgehogs. So I carry the burden of a crime. Stronger than tractors, stronger than the strongest thing you could imagine, stronger than earth itself, that never asked and takes everything back. For this fact keep in mind, if with feet you profane these places, that you trample the earth twice: once on skin and once on soul. And they call her "Mother"...
ODE TO IGNORANCE
My ignorance is not of bramble, that opposes every path of life but fertile and graceful like a vine sprout nourished by a peat of curiosity, until wisdom lignifies, which like good wine's fumes grants me knowledge's intoxication.
AN OLD MAN TO HIS HORSE
I watched my horse wither like a bunch of muscles in the sun. Pendulous tail, motionless, like never before now, when air all around incensed with morning grass's perfume. And I, who for my part wither, like when he carried me on his onyx coat, so I'll lead him to death, riding my old heart. I won't give you to earth. I'll make you flesh in the pot, you'll be flesh in my flesh and your mane I'll stroke on my strings so your neigh still propagates. A cloak I'll make of your skin and of your remains a fire's torment and light you'll be, at night, in this valley, in this desolate place that has become my mood.
OUTCASTS
Solitude is the most toxic of addictions. It is sought, meticulously, with maniacal constancy, in the darkest and most arcane cave of oneself. It is built, like a fortress, with coarse fragments of indifference when, austere, we elevate ourselves to judges of others. Alone, it's you who turns your head, who doesn't notice, who precludes yourself from a crossing of gazes. It's not the outcast who is alone, since he hasn't chosen and, unarmed, endures man's solitude.
BREAKWATER
I've always imagined destiny as an impalpable breakwater. So bastard and treacherous, so capable of annihilating me. Thus I've seen my dreams shatter. Without warning, suddenly, with the force of an ocean ...who knows if destiny exists. And if dreams, in truth, didn't sink straight down? Perhaps they're fish that dive, swimming in life's multiple depths until resurfacing, mighty, with the force of a hundred fins. This would make human life a fishing. With its waits, its unforeseen events, its failures and man who, in the act of waiting, disappoints himself. Until one day, at darkness's last hour, at the last cove, his basket begins to fill. Without warning, suddenly.
SEAGULLS
I am calm water, awake in your gulf. In the atavistic need for solid ground aching is seagulls' song that I would shoot them all down. All I would shoot them down with voice power, my voice that doesn't return and high-sounding expands without obstacles, without rebounds, in this lugubrious void. Your breasts I would take with these hands, and your kisses, one by one, in a prosperous fishing. But if hostile you remain on the bottom and wandering desist to my trammel net, what remains of so much sailing?
THE ENAMORED FISHERMAN
You seem at night so dressed in moonlight, while sleep takes me, cowardly, that of many labors I don't suffer one. Those cuttlefish-black eyes I imagine stretching to the horizon and livid hands intertwining like reeds. Your almond scent, that between seaweed and diesel comes to mind, sharp in nostrils and evident, is worn net from whose wide meshes desire escapes. Sonorous silence melts in brine and attentive disappears you, as if to remind me I'm alone... Or not to be? since I am nowhere if not between your arms.
QUARANTINE
Freedom of body was helpless prey to you, never wary and elusive, as if you owned it. Suppose one day you were starved of it, wouldn't your neck be a snake that empty in stomach, from the thinnest branch, with avid necessity stretches, bends and points toward the only sliver of good air? Like a rat, in your body's coils you would embrace a stranger just for hunger of good manners and like a flower forced in shadow, outside light's axis, you would crave all people, irradiating yourself with friendly voices.
PITCH-BLACK MOUTH
With roots firm in spite, in darkness's irregular escapes, crawling like a repugnant worm, between viscera's ravines you've laid your judgment that nests and feeds chanting gloomy verses. If your pitch-black mouth slithers, like a baroque violin's bow on guts stretched by my intolerance, that mist of words doesn't remain between my fingers. It's lost, this ephemeral song and where tolerance lies ruin I rise again.
LETTER FROM A FRONT
You asked me to describe the desert to you: When you dress in your skin the truant rain drums, in land of spite, tinkle a tribal rhythm. Caught in woman's tasks, cautious I graze the neck you move like a flame. How could I refrain, in the essence of soaked asphalt, in that African wind, with that fiber of light that is sun in a domestic desert. I don't even let you finish and all is yielding. And you are accommodating prey and you are a kiss on my grin, in our disorder of senses. Nothing more is where it was. Where vigorous and irreverent I took you, now dwells Eros's ghost.
THE JOURNEY
Semi-consciousness is an ascetic arpeggio of discordant triads. A stairway of narrow steps. Wisdom a doorway, insurmountable mirage to which I often turn my gaze. Earthly is my knowledge and bland my flavor. Carthusian in a prophetic journey, if I didn't derail at every ditch, I would like to vibrate with changing notes deaf, to the accent of low ones.
LEMON
Never in your name would I have read it.
Your nape, only, your attention, elsewhere, that has stopped everything, your hands in hands, that weren't mine and I extinguish, slowly. Then, at your noticing, it's an unfurled sail, a silent caress to wind's pressing and I appear, cautious among foam, with sweetness becoming impenetrable. All around is horizon while I sink in experience's depths. I become fisher of suspicions, harpoon every gesture, every hint. They reach me, your words, dark as whales' song, of too black and evident ink. But I land, impeccable and undertow pushes me beyond. So I leave myself, bitter, on your lines, like a lemon on book pages.
DISTRACTED
Since tonight I grant myself to seclude, I've chosen a place where man no longer usually carries himself. Since I've chosen the night sky, under a blanket of dark, where inured to the unknown and stars' great beauty we talk of everything except the origin of everything, I talk to myself of everything except your existences. I carry myself, tonight, where it's unsuitable to pretend, delay showing oneself. So I can hear myself, beyond your voices, cars, televisions on from windows, in summer. Distracted. Everything distracts you from beauty, from how moving night can be, from how much truth there is in a thought, at night, when all dissolves in the very void it created. I've experienced the lightness of gaze that loses itself, literally, without reference points among those infinite and luminous points and never so piercing has the meagerness of my being on earth revealed itself to me, parasite of something great and generous that, night after night, I painfully try to earn. Distracted.
SILENCE
I favor silence. It's an emotional hecatomb the superfluous outburst of externalized thought, the massacre of my right to stay quiet. In this abuse of sociality and pleasantries I'd like to close myself from all sides and feel, make you feel, the immensity in sharing silence, the grace in absence of spoken words, the delicacy of feeling without sounds. Without hesitation I'd welcome you in the padded, boundless universe of my moods and with my hand would lead you to suffer, and rejoice but there's too much clamor here, in this muddle of sociality and pleasantries, in the ill-fated trampling of emotions, where silence is granted only to the mute.
