K.S.M.E.

Soba is the ideal food to put life back

into perspective: its splintered taste, its

aged textural plainness reconnects one to

the simpler, pure occurrences of daily labor.

One does not eat soba; one –thinks- soba.

Spread in its reed basket, it livens the fun of

angling feelings, it lays bare a diorama

of my own thought patterns, which seem to

grow more and more confusing, tenderly

cute yet spiraling by the minute.

It seems, somewhat, silly to cling on a

sensation as frivolous as taste, which lasts

zero and is, in fact, zero in itself. But you are

like that; the delicate, lovingly shallow is

your dominion. This, of you, I like the most.

If, as you say, you do not wish to become

a conundrum of unresolved issues just like me,

How will you interpret my sign of commitment?

Thick hair arranged upon our table,

Spelling K.S.M.E.

“Swan’s Lake (A Child’s Sorrow is Time)"

A woman from Oklahoma, engaged in

a banally depressing monologue, in between

an empty drone and a hollow shout assumed

the poise of a sixth grade teacher while

resting the viola in her lap and, arrogant:

“You, what is a child’s sorrow? You are

meant to provide questions not answers, but

Let them all know - a child’s sorrow is time.”

I beg to disagree: A child’s sorrow is a

swan’s lake. As he grows older

willow branches will wither in scum,

discarded needles will threaten every step,

his lake will turn into a cement swamp;

finally, driven by fury, he will butcher

the swan and find out it was just

a pillow of second-rate goose feathers

all along.

Maybe, after all, a child’s sorrow

is

time.

Silverware Handling Session

Dry, congruous, neatly white,

a pedophile of sorts, he’s so

frustrated ‘cause he knows they’re

not his children to play with.

He just borrows them for a few

years, as long as “them” pleases,

as long they’re a leash,

effective.

Runs smooth across surfaces etch-

ed in millionth year scum, I feel

dirty just being there, glued to my

chair and smiles too, he smiles

the senile lecher, hater of

all that is to the least human.

How much of that is in

me already. Fingers run across

the table surface etched in

oilseed rape, the slick

fingerprints of many undesired ones

are already there, skittering.

Dripping from a slit.

Thoughts retract into a near

childhood, and the spirit in red

winding beside and past me

(Why must our impulses, desires

be shared by him, by others?):

So much faith in such a tiny soul,

So much filth for such a tiny hole.

Through Dry Land

A few buildings by the Adriatic are

collections of chipped white walls, tiny

reptiles scuttle through sand and brush;

A seabed of pine needles distances my

temporary dwelling from towing waves,

somewhere out there.

We might rent a bike and ride along the

drizzly seashore boulevards, lounging for

lunchtime. You could wrap around my

waist and I wouldn’t know if to be

content, sentimental or what

You, incessant, bore me at times but

it is a sight, the fork clashing against

your teeth, firm, acute sour unlike the

eyes, grey that is melt eyeliner

- No, nothing in particular, why?-

What I like about you is how

you are rosemary, parched and sere

on the extreme fringes of a dust trail; you

overlook the lack of nourishment,

you are always your small, regretful self.

FreedomNote 02

June has come and gone and I

left my little green booklet home, safe.

Green is gracile, fast to wither and

would be terrified by the white

and blue abundant in August seasides.

It is supposed to be a chain of thought,

this one, but there is breeze over

my head and the salt is so fine I might just

sit here and let the chocolate run down

my elbow, straight to the pavement.

I only get it to sweeten

the lemon, anyway.

It glimmers in my hand like eco-

friendly mother of pearl, it’s only

an idea, I know, but it took

more than five minutes to get

it out of my head and, nowadays,

I’d say that’s quite a labor of love.

When you get a chance, try

sleeping under a parasol by the

seaside and then, open your eyes

slowly; It’s lapis lazuli blue,

It’s fresh and unadulterated

visual pleasure.

FreedomNote 01

Green and asphalt grey are

the hues of summer,

A dent in a hose and a

grain of sand in the eye.

I still cannot understand how my

friend could walk barefoot on

concrete in mid July;

Used to tell me there are lizards

who do just that, somewhere in Africa.

That must explain it.

Now, I’m pretty sure it’s summer enough

for everyone to feel it under their skin, show-

casing the many manners for banishing cold

and welcoming a degree of restlessness. But,

since when did the yield turn green as well?

Such changes are worth noting:

I take my Stabilo out of the

front pocket and rummage for

the green book (a Christmas gift I

forgot in a drawer ‘till June).

It’s my world’s medication time.

I’ve always been a good child.

I don’t drink and drive but

I have my own, peculiar pastime;

Sporadically, I think and write.

The Living's Adolescence

I called you from the staircase bottom while

Pictures of your departed ones looked about,

Longing to taste youth again, and that’s when

I realized my pretty one’s no longer a reed by the river.

Holding back, I kiss you on the cheek under

The smoky eyes of your mother on the wheelchair,

A bog of tired flesh, avidly caressing her life destroyed

Nervous to suffocate her envy in bakery and pastry of all sorts.

A trace of summer heat in available November,

Cherries make beautiful earrings when

Your youth, and delayed decay, rivals with theirs.

Looking west from the hill to the wheat fields

My blood is worked, hated and cried upon a

Sky so outstretched, wide, uncomfortably slumbering,

His wisdom could tear the unaware soul apart.

I must do everything I can to keep us here so look,

I made a coat of new fog for you only,

So that you might not be cold as we run circles

By the churchyard, breath culled by the bell

Ringing its awkward melody to a place of peace

Where the dead, demure, know the pleasures

Of their assigned place, and living is nothing but

A distant memory, of which we’ll laugh one day.

Six Part Canon

If a sensation somewhere between

restless expectation and serene resignation

could be split into five equal parts,

and each assigned to a Muse

of young age and little to no experience:

One could extend white-washed wings

and fly atop the pines, not afraid of falling asleep,

for a worthwhile dream it is, to be finally awakened;

One would wait in the darkness

of a dimly-lit classroom, poised to spearhead

shadow crumbs, remains of a crusade against herself;

One would breathe within the glare of a blade,

the unapologetic purity of a January snow crystal,

the chance meeting of laughter and a cold lay-by;

One might move in memories, day after day

wishing for means to approach the distant,

until she finds that miracles do happen from time to time;

One could ration her heart for harsher times,

quietly slumbering among snow and strawberries

for the time being, she won’t say “thank you;”

Last is a guest, holding colorful threads within his hands;

they demand attention, require a long postponed

fulfillment, but sleep takes hold and ignorance does have power.

Aspiration

“The maid of pearl and ambergris came from

my Sea: borne thick in the blubber of a sperm whale

for nineteen summers, she fed on expectations

and, in sleep, sipped upon the putrid waters of every man’s

murky dreams of sensory satisfaction.

Upon her twenty-first birthday, the maid left the chilly

reaches of her snow-white seabed, and stretched for

the surface- for she desired a mortal to know her

and lick the crusty salt festering on her wounds

- wished for life to be renewed after death.

As soon as her hand felt the searing touch of sunlight,

the filth of mercury and sawdust,

the uncringing boredom of daily toil and menstrual labor,

body turned to foam and mind

swallowed itself inside out like a horde

Of thoughts annihilated upon conception.”

Into my private sea

that weeds quietly festoon, and shelter is provided

for all pleasures the senses might conceive,

too soon the bowl is empty and I

must pay a dear price for killing that maiden’s nest.

Greetings

Best regards,
I learnt yesterday that a poet has to have a blog, so here is mine. This is where I'll post most of my poetry and little tidbits as they become available. I am a 23 year-old Italian currently living in Edinbugh, trying to get his art criticism career off the ground; nonetheless I categorically eschew intellectualism and problematics in my artistic writing, so please sit back, relax and let's see if we can get this thing off the ground in the long run.
Other places in which you might find my writings:
www.indianbaypress.com
www.theroseandthornezine.com