The Magic of Circus

Like the circus are in life most things,

sadly enough but as real as this:

if you want to keep the magic feel,
don't get too close to those you need
'cause you might find out the trick
or have the cracks on their paint seen.

Do it to Julia! Not me!

The whole thing feels like a film. Like if you were watching it on a huge flat TV screen or through the eyes of someone else. The white vehicle speeding up next to you, the loud arrhythmic siren muting any other noise in the street, the light of it reflecting on every surface on the walls: blue, red, blue again. You feel some kind of unwholesome curiosity as you see it get through your neighbourhood and let your mind erratically rumble through other corners of your mind when it gets out of sight.

Then, when you approach the house just to see the ambulance parked right in front of it, its back doors wide open, the dream starts. And you will later remember thinking of it as a dream because it was even more ethereal than before, a little weird voice inside your head screaming it couldn't be true all the time. You will also have the impression that you didn't walk but float because your brain was so busy registering new information that the sound of your steps or the feel of your feet on the ground won't be recorded in your memory.

Then you prayed to gods you didn't know you could think existed. To all. To no one in particular. You pray to yourself it's not your floor, not your door, not your flat. And again you fly, upstairs this time, and you know that whatever the end of the fantasy is, no matter if your life is being fucked up right now or not, you will feel a very real pain in your stomach when the pressure leaves you. And you may vomit, and you may cry, and you may need to hold onto something because you are about to faint.

And it gets worse because your door is open. And you can hear noises and the paramedics shout although you cannot understand their words. Everything is spinning and some weird darkness enters your body through the corners of your eyes. But you cannot let the world go and you shake it out of your head. You have to stay firm and stand.

You will survive now. It's not difficult given the chaos and the confusion. But you realise tomorrow things will somehow calm down and fall into their places. The day after, if not. And at some point people will expect you to perform normal activities such as answering the phone or even breathing and to leave the pain behind. Your suffering and its reasons won't be mentioned on the newspapers and the subway and trains will keep on running. Nothing will have changed for the rest while nothing will be the same for you again and you will hate random men and women and kids in the street for their ability to smile.

It cannot be you. It was never you before. You should be one of the others, on the side where the grass is greener and the sun always shines and birds sing like a perfectly harmonious choir. That has always been your role in the theatre of life. You master your lines, you make the right comments and, like you had been rehearsing for it, you pat people on their backs when it's expected. That's why you prayed it wasn't you. Because that is fair. Because drama is what happens at least one door away.   

Crave (Tribute to a dead writer and a living man)

I want to learn how to make perfect coffee in your tiny coffeemaker and hug you from the back when you cook tomatoes with mozzarella although you will insist I have to sit down and I want to go trough all the souvenirs from your shelf that you bought around the world and which remind me of my own although the they are not the same and play chess and highlight the fact that the first time we played I put you in check first and I want to make you angry and then have to work hard on "dis-angrying" you for ages because you have your head low and say you're not a machine and cannot get happy by pressing a button and if I hurt you I hurt you and you don't want to smile but in the end you do and then I smile too and then it's all good and I want to count the moles from your back and go to trendy bars and see you enjoy seeing other men look at me and I want to drink your tea from Russia or my tea from China and change books with you and let you choose my food sometimes because I feel overwhelmed by the variety of huge menus and go out the house wearing our stupid Soviet military outfit knowing people will stare at us and you will say it's like Carnival although it's not and I want to interrupt you while you speak because I do it all the time and say "sorry" then and try to wake you up in the night to make love knowing you will answer you need a bit more sleep and we will only fuck in the morning and I want you to talk badly about the job in the office and feel you still like it after all and hear you say you're trapped like a hamster but see you laugh while saying it too and just look at you when you cannot see me so that I can catch a glimpse of what I think is your soul and set Christmas decorations all over the house and show you my poems and my photos and hear you say they are the best although they might not and I want to bite cherry tomatoes with you and bite your lips while and have a bad time because you shout "blowjob" in restaurants and bars just to make me feel embarrassed and plan a trip somewhere far and look at you like I was licking you with my eyes until I make you feel uncomfortable and I want you to tell me about your sister and your dad and your mum and how much you love them and how they get you on your nerves too and tell you about my mum too and let you find a solution for every problem I have and find myself a solution for everything which bothers you and let you tell terrible jokes and laugh at them because they're funny and buy candles and spread them all around the room and say "surprise" and I want to make you get scared from time to time because it's funny to see you jump and curse and I want to tell you dirty things in Spanish and hear you answer them in Italian and wear one of your old T-shirts as a pyjamas and sing aloud in your car and write you letters and make a scarf for you and rest my head on your chest so that I can listen to your laugh from inside you and let you know that this type of writing is called "interior monologue" and that it surprised the public and critics in the 20th century although you may already know it and let you also know that this piece of shit is inspired in a text by Sarah Kane that reminds me of us although you might already know that too and I want to tell you how much I like you and mention little things you do and are amazing because you feel so special when I do so and maybe tell you I love you one day and hear you saying that home is wherever I am and make the impossible turn possible and be romantic with you because romantic is the only way to be with you and really be with you because the distance is gone and feel we will never lose each other because you cannot lose a part of yourself

Song of a Restless Traveller

I don't wanna live too long,
but I wanna live before I go.
I ain't gonna be a passenger,
'cause I can control the road.

Every little step I take
makes me awake and aware
that I hold power in mi hands
to always choose my way.

I'll always be what I am
loyal to me, soul in calm,
won't cover myself with lies
even if all think I'm mad.

I know I can fly real high
I know I can touch the sky.
I'm a river, not still water.
I won't get rotten, then die.

Thunders, lightnings, songs

The storm was coming.
He liked them, although he was just a little baby.
He liked them because when the rain was pouring hard and the wind seemed to go all mad, his father would pick him up from the floor and sit him on his lap, on the rocking chair by the window. Then, they watched the lightnings and listened to the thunders together, their bodies pressed against each other's. Sometimes the man would sing for him, his little son, in a rather quiet voice. Old lullabies in ancient languages that linked them too, that made them one along with their ancestors and the ground under their feet.

Those intimate moments may have been what gave him the strength and power he usually showed  in front of the others. That façade of calm and peace he was so proud of.
Maybe those storms turned his head and heart into the uncontrollable and wild sea of feelings he, most of the time, felt he was sinking into.

He liked this crazy weather but he would cry sometimes so that his father wouldn't take him for a tiny adult and think he didn't need his strong arms and his songs anymore. He would never get scared. Not then, at least.
However, one day his father was not there to hold his hand anymore. Without even realising, he had, all of a sudden, become a grown up. He was standing on his own.
And he sometimes sings the same old rhythms for those who cannot sleep at night. And he wishes it was not him, but his father who sang. And he wishes it was not for me, but for himself the comforting words are being spelled.

Summer Remembrances

And so I would call his name, his sweet long name, among the trees. I would shout and scream it until, as if from nowhere, he would appear and kiss me on the cheek. Then, we would spend hours in that forest, only sitting on the wet leaves or looking at the clouds and trying to see shapes on them. We would also get on our knees and pray to Goddesses we had just invented, that meant nothing to the world but were all for us.

Some other times we would go down town and enjoy the noise and the dancing and the neon lights like stars on a hard dry sky of concrete and bricks. Those nights, we wouldn't really talk but just enjoy staring at each other's smiles, glowing because of the weird lamps in the discos. Most of the time, knowing he was right beside me was enough to feel at home. I didn't need any superfluous chat.

I would enjoy finding my own reflection in his sea-blue eyes and I knew, even back then, when I was so innocent and so young, that I would never feel happier, safer than between his arms, my face resting on his young, almost childish chest, thinking our love was going to last forever.

To Christopher, or Sorry that I Called You Your Full Name

How to dance under the rain
I will never forget again.
Because once I did get lost
in others' impressions and thoughts.
(and, Alas! How hard it was
finding the way back home)

For my full-of-tears eyes
The world was black 'n white.
My inner light went dark,
loneliness covered all up.

On the mirror what I saw
when I looked into my eyes
was I face I didn't recognize,
by other hands re-shaped.

The Last Fuck

You can already go,
as fast as you want,
but I wish you to know
that I wanted a last fuck.

The Sun can go to sleep,
years and years can pass by.
I’ll stay in bed, waiting
for my fuckin’ goodbye fuck.

‘Cause you’ve made me wrong.
‘Cause you’ve made me cry.
‘Cause you’ve drove me crazy.
But there were two things
(I think) you did quite right:
One: to hurt & Two: to fuck.

I know shit just happens,
but you were worse than shit.
A kind of compensation
must be given to me.

Come on my sweet bitch,
you know how we did it…
I know you can’t love me,
But that’s not what I’m askin’ for!

Love Debts

Make me feel guilty, judge me, torture my mind
for the drugs you take, for your sorrow nights,
for the women you kissed pretending they were I,
for the way the razor blades over your skin fly.

Make me feel guilyt, and from Hell near
for your bad luck and all these deep fears,
for your worst pains and your black tears,
the projects you left and the broken dreams.

Never let me rest in peace or sleep,
I must pay for what to you I did.
No smile, happiness or joy feelings,
there are for me no more fairytales.

Ballad of the Hidden Love

I can see your face among the fallen leaves,
hear your voice in the whisper of the wind.
When I feel the rain covering my skin,
you are crying your pains all over me.

Nobody is going to occupy your place
even when you are from me so far away.
No other man will enter that special room
that inside my heart I have built for you.

All the red roses smell just like you do,
my soul gets happy knowing you are too,
and the taste of a cup of the best wine
the memory of your lips brings to my mind.

When we can lie together, embraced again,
playing, laughing, kissin on our sweet bed,
all my sorrows and my sadly repeated prayers
will finally get an answer and a shiny price.

Nature and Love

The sea will no longer
shine with her deep blue.
Someone stole it from her
and that someone is you.

It is you who has stolen
the waves from her breast
and have hidden them then
inside your mysterious eyes.

Outside, over the streets,
and more than ever before,
the sky’s tears are cleaning
the dirty and darkened floor.

The black nigh has arrived.
The trees cannot yet hold
those millions of dead leaves
and just let them fall down.

Stars are quite slowly
losing their clear light.
The Moon looks at me now
and pales on her bed and cries.

The worl is going mad tonight
because your heart forgot mine
and I feel just sick and cold…
and suffer as I never did before.