Wednesday, 7 January 2009


sort of introduction

I was delivered on the twelfth of February nineteen sixty seven and for many years since I’d lived with an entirely erroneous conviction that it was my very birth which announced the cosmic little step of Armstrong. Since the day I experienced the illusory sweetness of the first person singular for the first time, perhaps, I’d nourished that thought of mine that i had a strong urge to live in a place where five persons at most would’ve inhabited an area of about a million square miles, full of silence and the secret sound of blood slithering in the head.
Henri Michaux – a neighbour of mine - insisted that ‘the only hours that count are the still ones’. However, my personal stillness has become a burden recently, like a tombstone over a carcass that’s suddenly come to life.
Personal history’s made up of events, which – having turned into memories – become a narrative.
The former are insignificant, don’t feel like the latter…

let us say it’s easier
to write ‘bout the sublime
let’s say the beginning
favours a poem that
accepts a short and draft dream
subtle shapes slanted sceneries
stones get softer females make
up their lips and the sky’s all made up

i’m sweating suavely the beginning’s looking
for the end i’m seeking my fly in the darkness
of the staircase
seek and ye shall find
and it’ll even be more quiet

we’ll be moved
our perverse ideas
exposed entirely
into an open mouth

zip up and fly away
before we get slaughtered
by silence

(Cecily Brown Teenage Wildlife, 2003 Oil on Linen)

memento mori

‘Indeed, I haven’t got the foggiest
‘What you are driving at’ – roared the wind
To a fell down tree.

‘Well’ – the trunk’s vernacular was getting slightly dry – ‘tis true that
‘It has been over three billion five hundred million eight hundred and seventy thousand five hundred
‘And sixteen years now since decomposition of connective tissue began.’

love between the sheets

well, such things happen (they say)
one can find a diamond in the street

we look each other deep in the eye and our ears
are full of humming silence – beautiful and delicate

as feline fur it finds its way between us
making no sound measuring the distance
between word and meaning since it simply adores
the aroma of warm bed sheets and a homebrew

love in orange

a mellow smile is grinning
a ray of light is time
passing across the window pane
in cigarette smoke
it falls asleep
how ‘bout making love
anyway our wet thoughts
have been in spasms
for quite some time now
an action in blue

love for the departed

 whenever you happen to come by
I’ll surely be here as well
how about taking a nap together – gods incarnate
of never-ending warm evenings on a hot beach…
have i told you yet that we’re in love like
deep in the ocean
wide and soft
fishes sneak stealthily past
i embrace the presence
repeat the vow
and burst out laughing in the storm
between a smiling winter

(Francis Bacon, Two Figures, 1953)

wise love

 It was sweltering hot at the beginning of May this year. I’d left all the windows wide open before going to bed and when the morning had just broken I heard some terrible yelling outside. I came up and looked out from the window to see what’s going on.
‘The doorbell isn’t working!!! How’z it goin’?’ – asked Socrates.
‘My trainers seem a bit tight. How ‘bout yours?’ – Plato asked him entering the hall.
Socrates stroke his fringe and dashed into the living room.
‘By no means. I feel divine.’
‘Hello. I’ll put the kettle on’ – said I and went into the kitchen to turn some music on.
The sun was still rising above the roofs and the whole tenement-house was full of crystal clear spring morning silence.
‘You’re gonna sniff those flowers of his away!’ – said Socrates and sat, laid back, in the armchair with a book he’d taken off the shelf.
‘ Bach is so modern, don’t you reckon, Socrates?’ – asked Plato, hidden behind the vase.
‘Bach is music, that’s it’ – murmured Socrates and closed the book.
Having brushed aside his fringe, Plato leaned against the wall, stood astride and started caressing the inside of his thigh with a rose he’d taken out of the vase.

pathetic love

 oh, you’re wearing those lace knickers eventually
you mentioned unfaithfulness i’ve been
ill-treating you with

‘didn’t compose much, toured a lot’
incongruent series create a coherent

i prefer miller to borges or the other way round
to cut a long story short – broken up sentences
seem to be the longest suit

a three/fourths tempo and unstable nights
everything comes together nicely in a tear
in trousers i hate confessional poetry

love and melancholy

The welfare state is drowning in words
Taxes in Texas - Texas in tatters
A notorious politician found dead, presumed innocent
Listening, observing whether their cuff-pins match

And how about a coffee
Full of flavour
A passionate kiss
A taste of timelessness

(Michelangelo Pistoletto up front, the blog author and friends inside arte povera, so to speak...)


a wave you are
philosophy of firmament
an apple you are
the soundtrack of a documentary
the shape of stride
a critical time
a comforting time
conjectured contour of a distant continent
a sylvan symphony
a sound sleep
the fate of the sun
a soft cittern
a land of fjords
a cave a mountain
the nahuatl answer
arte povera
arte ricca
love’s delivering
love is dying