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°°°ABOUT Poetry in Italy. -Karpòs Project- °°°LINKS P/P PHOTO POEMS SHARED MIRROR
°°°ARCHIVES today February 2004 January 2004 °°°COUNTER *loading*
Edited and translated by Roberta Dammern, Italy Please, if you notice some mistakes, say a word :) -template by rd- |
Friday, January 16, 2004
ANDY WARHOL’S SUITE (by Andrea Rossetti, Rome) clicca qui per la versione italiana It was a cobalt blue cloud what fell in oblique splashdown changing into comet the fifty-first star. On September eleven (il sette settembre, sounds more musical at least). We were making love once as sleeping rabbits into arms, us maize fields ghosts and how you used to undress, nobody else. To photograph a book to read it indeed, as such odd dancers' faces at the twilight, under stroboscopic lights before the grey morning steamboat. Normal is the habit of return. And then feature films around nothing or lie-in-wait’s documentaries of us drunk directors devoted to the legend of whitish crocodiles of sewers. I remember the touch of your tongue on my palate: it helps me to pluck up courage during the quarterly measurement of spinal decreasing. Now I only have minty humbugs. To cons-true is false for nature. Eyes help me to cut out by now paper rice scale models of life where to camp signs of thought, just more discreet and quicker of those you have known. An origami in two dimensions does not wobble, we told each other suspicious just a bit for not to be both stupid – do you remember? – just a moment before suffering. Because tears spread on face melted make-up disfiguring smoke sellers, refined tellers with velvet voices. Nevertheless we’re painters, job of colours, of accomplished simulators, and at the end for every soul in cloister there’s a monster. We went ahead thirsty and hasty, with elegant snares instead of shoes and weak memories which stun the sun. If white smoke of cigarettes can help us to climb the sky we would have spent those days angelically. Think about it: God could smoke with- out cancer risk. What ingloriously fell down, were switched off TVs bumped by rash child's hand. On September eleven (Il sette settembre, sounds more musical at least). Thursday, January 08, 2004
Hemingway in front of the weapons rack. (by Silvia Molesini, Verona) clicca qui per la versione italiana
Only two thin fingers for hand and an affixed inch for all those Africas thicken by Martini, Nick and for missed meeting, Nick.
Mother Cello makes up her mind: you’re a restless damaged little one.
Mother Cello drinks to calm down full bottles of whiskey, bourbon.
To Mother Littleviolence resonunded garrulous wars, and you ran up to help, of course I don’t believe you’ve shot at all.
“Two fingers of brandy, thanks.” Smuggled boxes thrown into the sea the banderilla which hangs from muscle a leg amputated in Padua.
We know that the woman goes who shoots the lion and you want that bitch, war reporter with how much precision you organize the field and how you can describe grimace while he dies
(only two thin fingers inch affixed for all those Paris Delivered, Nick for the nurse’s ass to shut her up in front of huge sunset)
baby shut up
he cries, he hurts that fragile inwardly the pity before horse's fall sweet butch girl musk in embrace she sees that brave boy,
he's there to pass the cotton for the cuts to throw the surgery tools in boiling water to dry the blood and hold the hand. Dry the blood and hold the hand dry the blood.
He writes, showing the barrera the pity before horse's fall. Tuesday, January 06, 2004
The night is elsewhere (ten silences and an Act of Contriction) (by Flavio Toccafondi, Rome) clicca qui per la versione italiana 1. The night is elsewhere frayed in internment cells waxed moon mirroring at the invisible step of a mask. The night is the underground risk of consciousness, it’s the guilty innocence of madness. 2. I became crazy six years ago but not now, I cannot go back to the world. The order of things are body and soul they cannot communicate, quick and untidy pulsations without synchronous, can’t recognize other fibres, they seem distant fragments of meat, it seems passions don’t beat any more no more affection no more arms nor blood, nor hair more. 3. I don’t like people. I don’t trust them. I don’t like the people who move, people, here, people should stay quite, if people move I am forced to check them for me it becomes difficult, they create disorder, they create deaf background. 4. I’m not going out home since 1983. People were coming out of the corners continuously. I could not check them. 5. Saint nun Support Sustain Sipping. Socks Soup Small bell Scoring. White light White sheets Weep in silence. 6. On Sunday they come here to find us little than eleven, on Sunday the cakes can come in, the colours of flowers can the perfumes, on Sunday 7. "Four hundred and forty-six cases a hundred and fifty-one for alive mind emotions fifty-two for hereditary disposition twenty-eight for masturbation three for syphilis virus twelve for Venus pleasure abuses twelve for intellectual faculties abuses two for the presence of worms in the intestine one for reabsorption of scabies five for reabsorption of herpes twenty-nine for milky metastasis two for insolation… “ * (1) 8. Maria lies down seated Maria nightdressed daydreams a fashion show Maria tortured in her wrists veins pressed by knots Maimed Maria between insults of the senseless ones. 9. “The imprisoned people for insanity will be questioned by the judges according to the forms in use for three months from the day onward the publication of the present decree under the power of judges’s dispositions they will be visited by the doctors whom will clarify the patients' real situation so that they will be released or curated in the suitable hospitals at such purpose.” * (2) 10. Camellias through gratings, miss the iron miss Maria through gratings in this silence which every tension appeases - today didn’t shout anyone today, not yet. 11. Act of Contriction my God I regret and regret my God give me the licence to walk give me a new dressing gown and some water please give me flowers that grow daily and then (if you can) invent, o Lord brace brackets, invent for me scratches and pictures and immense white lakes where I can fill my glances to breathe in peace. (1) Giraudy, report to the Minister of the Interiors on the situation of the Charenton mental hospital in 1804. (2) art. IX decree of Declaration of the man’s rights’ chart–1790. Sunday, January 04, 2004
(by Flavio Toccafondi, Rome) clicca qui per la versione italiana As a robin I tap the distance from your eyelash Unable to observe The silence to the bitter end of a red fish, maybe For the simple reason That the red fish’s theory It’s sly as Light signs of deceits I have learned to admit. This evening I’ve picked up 16 brilliant ideas And two violets. To say them to you I should survey the morning hatred with the necessary solitude. To give them to you I would need to bend me on tin water And throw bread crumb Smiling For the mess done By red fishes which run to squad because Red fish’s theory It’s wood against wood, Water and soot in the harbour dumps, It’s feeling inside a sharp extended noise, An undefended empty space, remaining a flag in the fog remaining A swinging on spider’s web Blind bug. Well. By now I know everything on the febrile beating of your eyelids, about the safe touch of daily things. Know about the way you move as who comes to give an order And leave. You’re shadows on the walls. The smoke of the torchs. I look at you with a blackbird on my shoulder and the profile of a coin. You stare at me With the conscience and the certainty of who knows What could happen. Rolled up in a corner I order the blackbird Time of calm or at least A false mourning. And you begin. Saying that every time we are together I say few words. “I know it. I’m special.” You need to hear me saying something that comforts you but I answer with words of five letters. Because. “I’m special, I’m sorry.” You say that I don’t want to do anything, I don’t want to go out so you throw an old thirteen year thing in my face, that fifth year’s school trip I’ve never done. “I’m special, I just told you.” You claim that I should stop telling you that story about blackbird, I should stop singing to you every time that song about blackbird and imitating all the pigeons we meet. “Special.” And you never tell me the things you write. I must read them. It’s absurd. “Special, don’t insist my darling, I’m really special.” Come now, seriously. “Do you know what I was thinking on?” Please tell me. “Wouldn’t be necessary to write what is thought.” That is to say? “Saying what you think you’ll always end up with writing obvious sentences. Think when you are in love. If you try to write something you will find between hands only pathetic and obvious sentences again.”. | ||
