Other Writing

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...

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...

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...

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...

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.

Follow the link to read more...

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...

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.

Follow the link to read more...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

My puny fangs and claws,

when they come to

claim what is logical.

Follow the link to read more...

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.

Follow the link to read...

The singular lost in the collective,

as in music, so in tragedy.

A glimpse of the ordinary as unacceptable.

Follow the link to read...