James Marchiori | Updates

BACK TO ANDROMEDA

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 07:00:36 -0500

From the top of an overwhelming

rooftop of sophism

the mute pigeons.

In front of the cinnamon taste,

fraudulent frames of

a false bespoke universe.

What was the taste?

Enhance me now.

Tell me where the universe was taken,

where’s the candid revolution,

the framed caviar canapes,

and the sweet wine they promised.

Where are they?

Just to bevel our

bitter, sharped corner.

Shabby, shocked, holes

that as an incunabulum move,

blind across the brain maze.

A glimpse of thought

throughout a tear,

a breed of fear.

Muted hues.

And then the mute pigeons.

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Aphro, Hybris and The Heaven

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:52:35 -0500

The universe is all about space and time and their contents.

The universe is like a container, or better to say, a lot of containers one into another; just like the typical Russian doll called Matryoshka.

The universe is the container that makes everything possible.

Just being as it is. Existent.

In the universe, the role for which the holding of things is made possible, is called communion.

The complementary sense of things. No one like the other, no one more or less important than the other. All together in the common attempt to be. All proud to be.

The only way to make it possible is to find the right way to make things happen. We need to find the way because the instinct is lost, and the sense dull. That form of primitivity, that allowed us to automatically privilege what is required in a spontaneous discipline, is long gone. The instinct is a thing of the past. So, every day we need to try and fight to maintain on tracks the train that everything contains and represents. The Universe.

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The Day Zikru Died

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:46:39 -0500

Zikru the idea.

He had an idea. During an ordinary day, Zikru, tired as always, was trying to find a revelation, an explanation, a solution. What he was looking for was in his reflection, in the mirror. Was it his in-sight? Maybe it was what he was staring at. He wanted to heal his tiredness throughout his own reflection.

Using it to fill the void, the lack of substance, the wrong facets. To cancel weaknesses, to save from decline. In front of him, just a mirror, a common bathroom mirror. What if he could invent a healing mirror? He thought about what he needed, being not scared by the magic he had to perform, con-sidering that everything had to be complementary to his mirror. An entire world of structures and objects to make it possible. It was not just the specialist, but all the instruments, the tools, the place, and the assistants. It was the whole picture to perform the magic, but of course, everything orbits around knowledge. The primordium. The fact itself made by the invention.

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The Belclave Hotel

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:58:38 -0500

Phone ringing…

“Hello?”

“Steve, it’s Jon here, we have the place! We have the place, can you hear me?!”

“Jon, my watch says it’s five o’clock in the morning. Can I call you back later to have your precious news?”

“Steve, why you prefer to sleep? We can jump on the car so that I can show you the grandeur of our empire, the new gem, the diamond, the pearl! Steve the pearl!!”

“Jon you better go back to smoking, since you quit, you look weird and probably the withdrawal causes you insomnia and delusion.”

“You’re the same spineless all the time, Steve, fuck it; I don’t need you anymore, I will do myself and enjoy alone the privilege and the glory.”

Jon Hastings was the chief developer and the maximum enthusiast inside Belmont Holdings, a company working at the top levels in the HoReCa industry. The last turmoil was the need to have a new site, where to develop a five-star diamond, with spa, fitness center, gym services, and all the modern comforts and standards. In Jon’s mind, there was a small cinema too, for special guests.

Steve Hammond was the man of financial support. In some sense, the break of Jon, the man with the numbers. The one who looks at the potential, and, defines the lines of the investments. Deciding if feasible or not.

That morning very early, almost half an hour before the opening of the offices, Jon Hastings arrived at the headquarters, breathless and anxious in his blue suit and mahogany leather shoes, his briefcase helped him to balance his speedy step towards the main entrance.

He arrived at his office, under the suspicious gaze of the cleaning team who was ready to leave.

He sat at his desk and started the first call: “Hi Adam, it’s Jon Hastings here, can I speak with Will of the architects’ team?”

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Hi Buddy

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:59:38 -0500

Hi Buddy,

long time we haven’t chat.

This is not poetry,

you know,

just anger to be.

No verses but thoughts.

I’m writing to you, buddy,

staring at the blanket, stained by crucified lines.

Do you remember what I used to say?

It was something about that day, that is here today.

I begged you and others around the fountain square

to give love an aim; to be your part of the lawless territory.

To be love.

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Bohemia

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:32:30 -0500

The lost haired, the long-haired, the bearded, and the massive in love.

What is Bohemia in terms of existence?

You know the classic novel Pinocchio. I don’t believe in the teachings of a popular guru in the fitness world who claimed that Pinocchio, which means “eye of pine” in Italian, is actually referring to the pineal gland.

Demented.

Horrendously improvised.

Obviously opposite of what I call positive grounds.

As someone who speaks Italian fluently, I can confirm that Pinocchio’s author chose his name as a humorous way to introduce a story about transformation, isolation, excess, success, and manifestation.

For those who read it, there’s probably no way to find in it excess and isolation, but it is not my place to tell.

I’m among the luckiest who discovered the psychedelics in Alice in Wonderland. You need to be lucky to understand, culture is not enough, unfortunately.

The bald pilgrim who saw in the white rabbit the little credit of the minuscule man addicted to the speed of nothing. I understood Anneliese Michel as a victim of the Vatican, such as Emanuela Orlandi.

We need to talk about it because we made bohemia something more modern and less passive as just a gypsy thing.

We are gypsies.

We are predicting, we’re listening to the percussion, and we know the beat.

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N.Y. BUMS

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:57:37 -0500

A day out or in,

abroad, indoor in consequence.

How long will we stay?

Often we leave.

Outdoor in the middle of the day,

thinking of a full madness imaginary

on how it could be.

We leave for an overdose of beauty,

for a chalkboard filled up of words

we always thought,

but we have never been

frank enough to tell.

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The Land of The Elves

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:56:17 -0500

Heavenly was the kingdom of the Elves, a golden sylvan realm thriving in its wonderful shades of green enchanted emeralds, perpetually glowed with magical torches. The blue of the beguiling streams gave the shores a turquoise ecstasy, as intense as it was the light of the trout of Pan, huge and fast fish, which whilst passing strongly illuminated the crystalline and violet-scented waters. The violets at least six times the size of the inhabitants of the forest filled the skies overlooking the houses, thanks to the warmth of their intense color.

Everything in Lhetan, the land of the Elves, had a magical and infinite flavor where the Fairies of the Sun and the Elves coexisted harmoniously. The fairies, thanks to their butterfly wings, used to clean the leaves, making them shine and placing lanterns filled with small fragments of the sun on their stems, illuminating the kingdom wrapped as it was in dense vegetation.

The paths, the houses built with sticks and rush leaves, and those violets, the sacred flowers in the kingdom which used to reflect the intense light needed to illuminate the great temple of Ahlstrom, the Divine Lord of Light, Joy and Elven Christmas. The temple was made of colored stones and served the Elves and the Fairies as a place of worship and to defend themselves from the evil presence of the Trolls, the villains of the night and their merciless commander: the terrible Uldrecht.

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The Maple Cottage

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:55:25 -0500

There is nothing clearer or more defined than a desire. The framework in which we put on display something vaguely determined, that is far from us. The burning passion, the ardent desire for what does not exist. Not yet.

Paul was a loner; he ate away the pavement and the soles, running behind intense chimaeras of the mind, his precious thoughts that belonged to a teacher. This is what Paul was, before the death of his wife, and before the retirement. Now he went along the entire village, from the beginning to the end and back, millions of times every day, passing through the same faces, passing through some new ones, very rare in that village. New people that, like during an alien visit, happened by chance, and almost always, having made the wrong turn. He was inspired by what he saw around him; it represented an inconceivable treasure he used to discover slowly, and he had the privilege to taste it secretly. It was what he thought about everything, from a single drop of rain and its consistency to the design of leaves, all different and with a secret. A hieroglyph speaking secret alphabets.

He was a man of science, in some sense. He used to teach chemistry, he privately studied the forms of particles and their reaction with additives. He had, as every figure in the society has, a rule of divulgation based on subject and knowledge, that he suddenly changed. He joined the costumes of the artists, for which the matter was not a subject, but a vision. It was throughout the vision that he could talk with elements and to speak those secret alphabets.

Paul looked always the same in his trench coat and leather brown lace shoes, his hair in a perennial uprising, soldiers of his tangle thoughts.

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Trilby’s Hat

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:53:37 -0500

Good day to you, my name is Basil Montague. I’m a lonely spirit, a lonely man, or whatever you prefer.

For sure, a free soul, a man of courage, a toxin in the social morality, no bravery, a bohemian, proud of it.

I’m a poet, and that’s why my scathing prelude; probably mine is the continuous research of verse to justify a universe of the multitude, where a multitude is nothing, I’m afraid. Too complex for a single soul, even if made of stanzas and verses.

I laugh when people talk about some laureate poets able to afford a life in poetry; they are fake, or those supposed poets have other providing for their lives, something untold. Poetry is just a virtue that doesn’t match with sordid trade.

In my case, I must confess that my poetry is a small part of my livelihood, but most of my being.

It’s out of the question that I’m poor, poverty of matters, but a richness of soul, an unconventional way of life as I already said.

What I do to live is a scramble of events that put a slice of bread on a bare table every day, it doesn’t matter. The only matter from now on is Trilby.

We are the same arcane page in an everyday diary. I must admit that after Trilby, mine is less mysterious.

The mystery that was embracing me, until that day, was revealed on a misty morning, finally able to remember, finally on track over a fantasy.

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The Bridge

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:51:26 -0500

It’s morning, isn’t it? Yeah, the classic morning to think, where to consider facts and circumstances. The very time where to get sunk, never a part of my daily game.

First task is to have a look at my bridge. You what? I’m sure you’re asking. My bridge.

I was never and currently am not fond of the present. I will explain better. I never trust the modernity and the stuff it represents, in a blatant and insidious way. I always feel the need to escape this nightmare, which is my personal view of the present. Thus, I enter my bridge, and I’m sure I will be pleased by the extra dimension. Early seventies are typically the place where I land.

Am I delirious? Not at all. How can I enter a bridge? Let me tell you.

Now, at my bedroom’s window, on a sunny day, I’m looking at the path in the garden where my bridge is parked. Yes parked. What I call my bridge is a 1970 green and black Plymouth Cuda. An American muscle car. Almost impossible to find here. I found it in a friend’s father barn, in the countryside. Apparently, my friend’s pop used to live in the States. Then he came back here on the island, choosing the splendid countryside for his retirement, and brought here the only tantrum he allowed himself to have.

The man gave up the car in the barn after retiring. He found it difficult to drive with the opposite side steering wheel, and he thought the car had something weird, demonic. His family treated it as an initial manifestation of dementia. They didn’t know whether or not it was true, but I can confirm his theory. For this reason, the son who firmly believed the old man’s superstitions left me the car almost for free.

After the restoration, I drove it with the enthusiasm of a kid at a fun park. Powerful, noisy and with a blade shape. A rocket. Everybody had their heads twisted in my wake.

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Samhain

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:50:31 -0500

Samhain, October 31st, the Celtic Pagan religious festival. End of Summer, end of the harvest, and beginning of the darkest period of the year. For the original and ancient cult, it was the end of the year, and also according to other, more sulfurous pagan cults. The date appears in the Compendium Maleficarum of 1608, written by Francesco Maria Guazzo, marked as the second more influential Witches Sabbath, after The Walpurgis Night at the end of April.

Back in time, they wrote many analyses about the last day of October. From the original pagan festival throughout cultural reinterpretations. Renamed in middle English Alholwmesse, meaning All Saints’ Day, it became eventually Halloween.

The Night of All Saints’ Eve. The night where people wear terrifying costumes to keep away the ghosts. A night where kids have a lot of fun going door to door, asking for Treat or Trick.

I was never a fan. I’ve always found this kind of festivity as a money mine for those in business with it. The same I’ve always thought about all the rest of the celebrations based just on marketing. Of course, it could have been a good reason to catch up with people, friends, but the calendar has other three-hundred and sixty-four days to meet up with someone. My Halloween nights were all the same. Couch, a few cans, a pizza from Domino, some TV, and straight to bed. Of course, the mobile rigorously switched off. No invitation to silly parties, please.

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An Office Chair

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:49:24 -0500

I can’t remember where I was, a Shopping Centre perhaps. I read somewhere there, on a commercial banner… no, it can’t be. It was something underneath, almost subliminal. The confused sound of the Shopping Centre’s radio, well audible just after the entrance and then, gradually, inside the galleries. Just a confusing rustle… but no, it can’t be. I got it. It was at a home party; I was talking with somebody, the umpteenth unwanted guest… I guess I took care of it.

Anyway, somewhere I heard this message: “I enjoy taking an undefendable position and creating an argument on it.”

It is exactly the body of existence. That’s why it marks my mind so deeply because it is the key, the explanation on why, and who, and again, why I behave as I did for all my life. It seems nothing, but for me, it was a torment. The big question mark. Until I found the answer. Now I’m complete.

Based on this, now that I have taken the sword from the rock, I can share the analysis with you. Because I have the answer. The orphan has a name now. His name is undefendable.

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My Puny Fangs

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:41:53 -0500

My puny fangs and claws,

when they come to

claim what is logical.

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The Unwanted

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:40:05 -0500

Here we are, the unwanted.

Astronauts sculpted on a portal

of a thousand years old.

Restless jingles of an old advertisement,

uncomfortable shoes, like raw fries.

It’s necessary to find a reason for the puddles

which is not the dropped ground.

Stop calling the night passer-by lady

a prostitute.

Stop calling the man with dirty cheeks a

miner.

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The Singular Against

James Marchiori — Thu, 22 Jan 2026 06:37:53 -0500

The singular lost in the collective,

as in music, so in tragedy.

A glimpse of the ordinary as unacceptable.

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