FROZEN

When I was dead I feared to live, and the memories fed on my present, rereading me.

When I was dead I was struggling in a narrow space, in the coop of feeling where I collapsed.

The sleep of the righteous loomed, as imposing as a tomb of sealed essences.

A dull beat even today, finding yesterday's gaze.

This secure prison give all the freedom denied that you need to continue to want to run away from yourself.

The only possible choice was to get lost.

And the sun shone in its absence, comfortable blindness.

It wasn't me it wasn't me, I was my great commitment, my disengagement from myself.

It wasn't me but someone else's forgotten tale.

AWAKE

Today the cities are museums, ancestral vestiges of disused cults.

Everyone is alone in his self-sufficient sphere, everyone is alone in his white room;

a single place, a single soul in the world and endless appendices.

Organic problems are extinguished, no activity under the sky, only the morbid plunge into the past existence of incompleteness to be resolved.

Where is life?

In which places is the memory of every single breath kept?

The uncomfortable sunset of the endless days, the strangled dawns, the knowing who you are all together, the months without wondering it, the hopes and broken promises.

One step after another on streets full of ruins, possible lives and forgotten faces, with the terror of not bringing with them anything but the fragments of a present never lived.

And then come back, alone, nowhere.

DISTORTED MEMORIES

Breath in reverse, right into your chest; breath for you.

I listen to the world, my world, through your senses, inebriated.

Your silences, my refuge; your looks, my moments of being.

The echo of the distracted living of yesterday, of the stupid moments in which the emptiness beyond the present crystallizes in us,

bounces in a game of embellishing mirrors; thoughts re-emerged like paintings from the calm waters of a river in flood;

until a few moments before the order violated the intimate chaos of creation, unknown faces taught us their truth, submerged.

The essential, eternally trapped in secret play of light.

ETERNAL RETURN

Sleeping I will perhaps wake up from this nightmare; I will oblique the perfume of your words.

And I will tell our story as an ancient fairy tale, in front of the bonfire of what belongs to you, surviving in the dark.

And when everything is burned away, blackened like our world, you will remain to shine for my only eyes.

Because you are what remains.

Joy free to enter and leave, joy that can no longer hurt.

In the inattention that presides over the change of view on the world,

cuts more deeply.

Dizziness of those who pronounce the unspeakable, disappointing a sadistic public of attentive dissatisfactions.

Joy free to enter and leave, joy that can no longer hurt.