Number 3 – Communication

Communication.

She draws red lines on a whiteboard
then turns to the people behind her,
echoing with her eyes half-closed.

Communication.

She likes to mesmerize the opposite sex
with a flock of violet words,
with a legion of mouth shut smiles.

Communication.

She says she won’t finish her plate,
she will make you sniggering
at her nibbled tomato sauce spaghetti.

Communication.

He has a wall of webs in front of him,
he will love to pause for a minute,
shifting a blank chair,
bleaching his reddening thoughts.

Annunci

Number 2 – When You Were Young

You’re special.
You’re so special.
Don’t make anybody else telling you what or who you have to be.
Because there’s no one else like you.

Promises which get lost in the palms of the one who reads them. She looks familiar.

Summer, 1999.

The necklace tight on my neck, some beneficial stone hanging on it. A shirt made of an oil’s fabric.
You take a pair of scissors and you snip the borders.

Because you are getting bored.

On a seesaw, while the line of the horizon comes up and down from your nose, you dream about your future. About your friends. About traveling around the world. About the beautiful woman body you will have, about your actress, pianist, singer career.

But when you need it, you can’t ever find a tissue to blow your nose.

Winter 2014.

Rooms packed with things, mail never read, people to meet, work to be done. You slacken it off and you call it entropy.

School play, you sing the Pink Floyd behind a grey sheet. You follow your schoolmates and you rip it, but you hate the din that it makes and you don’t understand the meaning of the song.
A thin guy will explain it to you many years later.

You’ve filled your life of expectations that you consumed before living them. But now you are on a queue to cash them in. To get the entire specialness, beauty, inimitableness that you were promised. But it is a long and bastard queue, the people push, lug, pull your coat and pierce your eyes with their fingers.

Because they know that there won’t be for everyone.

Number 1 – Swinging eyes

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday I am in Appiano train station, around half past two. I take out the plastic containers which have my food in it: generally a salad. I take a sit on the house track, where just a few people wait for the trains, maybe a bunch of young boys whom I pretend to not notice while they look at me as a weirdo. The bench is frozen and it freeze my bum, so I stretch my coat under it or I cross my legs in a way to lay my buttocks on the feet; but it hurts after a while.
It is dim inside the station and the artificial light makes me feel like a Nighthawk. The feeling is so strong that I can’t help get a cigarette between my index and middle finger, despite the ban hanged.

And punctually, a man arrives. An old man. So slowly that it seems to slip the house track, on which it appears catching me always by surprise. He is bent over and he has a warming smile. Then he stops. He raises his shoulder just as much to direct his gaze on the billboard train. He keeps on smiling. His eyes on the train hours, he gropes in the green jacket pocket for his wrist watch. Once he has it in his hands, his eyes – which have never moved from the billboard – swing back and forth from the train hours to the white quadrant, at least 20 times. Calmly, his body perfectly still while his eyes keep on waving. And his mouth keeps on beaming.
Checking the hour of his train even if he knows perfectly at what time he has come there, and what time will the train come. He still believes that anything could happen: the train could miss its route, the watch could break, or he could wake up one hour later without noticing it. He still believes in serendipity, and he waits it smiling.

I am almost sure that he does it every day, even when I am not around there oiling my lips with the salad dressing. It looks like a habit. But he could say the same about me maybe; maybe he goes there only those three days when I am there. But I don’t think that he had ever questioned about people around him, or ever noticed them: for him, there is him only, his smile, his still pose, the billboard, the watch, and the train to come.

Numero 13

In una notte ci fu il giorno.
Era quella notte in cui non avevo più paura, in cui il tempo era sempre poco.
Era giorno e le paline giocavano con i numeri mentre io mi portavo lo zaino su un fianco.
Per gli sguardi di una zingara che mi bucavano la borsa, la proteggevo con le mani.

E leggevo i ritorni alla terra, dei vigneti e delle capre.
Avevo disdegnato i miei dittatori quando mi ordinavano di essere libera.
Volevo i boschi, volevo l’autocrazia della foglia morta,
che raggiungendo il suolo crea la sua tomba.

E non immaginavo ci fossero campi da battaglia ancora in vita;
si svelò una calamita che attirava ogni ago del mio epidermide.
Una rinuncia e uno zaino da qualche moneta.
E tutto diventò una cornice senza tela.

Numero 12

E’ per questo che lo faccio.
Per tenermi in equilibrio sull’unghia del piede,
il brivido dell’aver paura di ciò che non si vede.
Per tenerti per la gola con uno sguardo,
per vederti annaspare, non sentirti chiamarmi.
Per la lingua che si srotola e che spinge l’epiglottide,
per nascere e spalancare il becco,
le mie labbra che lo nutrono.

E’ per questo che lo faccio.
Per guardarti sorridendo mentre la mia testa risuona di note gitane,
per ridere unicamente sola,
immagino ciò che sei
al di fuori di ciò che non sai.

Lo faccio per questo.
Per chiamarmi di aggettivi, per sentirmi le ali leggere,
per impiastrarmi di nettare le narici,
sfaldarmi tra i fili traslucidi,
bruciarmi i colori sotto il sole,
e posarmi sotto le tavole dell’Uomo a riposare,
sazia dei loro insegnamenti,
ignara della morte di ciò che vi era sotto.

Numero 11

Terra stralciata.
Giarrettiera di mani su una ferita di spine,
pupille che puntano l’osso,
l’estasi è la distanza tra le due labbra,
nel mezzo l’aria esalata.

Non crederò al tuo martirio fino alle falangi,
fino all’anello egiziano,
fino alla conoscenza che non ho mai ottenuto,
fino alle stupende promesse che non ti ho mai concesso
di farmi.

Quando non ti chiesi gli occhi chiusi di una città,
ti chiesi di riempire la conchiglia fino ai bordi,
di memento mori succhiati da bocche avide,
scovati nei padiglioni, fuori l’oscurità.

Queste rotaie che mi getteranno sugli anelli papali,
sulle mattine refrattarie e purificate,
ti chiamerò una volta e scoppierò a piangere,
Non ti chiamerò mai.