Da un anno o due avevo dei problemi a leggere i libri di poesie, non una poesia sola, proprio i libri, i libri di poesie. Mi capitava sempre, dopo aver letto dei libri di poesie, di passare un giorno o due a ragionare in versi, a volte ritmicamente, tipo seguendo l'andare dei passi per la strada Presto vai / il tempo fugge / serve subito / presto, un chilo / di pane un chilo , i movimenti delle abluzioni mattutine Allàgati la faccia / e vai / Marco vai / anche oggi vai / a guadagnarti il pane / cretino / vai , parlare col panettiere Un chilo / di treccine / e poi anche / se si può / una pagnotta bella grossa / se sì, / può . Allora avevo smesso di leggerli, i libri of poems.
then came up with this kind of poets of the network, this bit generation (it's a stupid joke I made one evening in a pizzeria, I did not know how to re-use it, use it here, please be patient), and two were taken out of books of poems, one called The woman who kissed the wolves of Guido Catalano, another sad tale of love for the mentally ill of Azael . Inside there are written the things that you open the head, as in the first:
but you think you can love you dog?or:
in dogs such as dogs love you in?
how do you say to a girl pants?how?
must say panties
and then:
when one day I'll tell you I love you:
Be armed with a pistol from one of those little girl inside her purse
puntamela and ': if you repeat it the courage or
rarely beautiful girl is fire:
therefore useless to try in the sun or
could with the drops in your eyesand second, there is a poem called Audio and escape, which is beautiful, says:
us the coffee?
The bad
the ugly should never ever ever leave the house,idiots never open their mouths,all the bad guys locked up in cellars,and smelly and the dogs in large cells of Plexiglas,the beautiful, clever, the lovers, the good, the poor and the credulous, all in the streets,continuouslya buzz and get away,Ring the bell and run,
until the lady is not respondingsays Who's Who the fuck is, who is stracazzofalls belowwith the broomgunslooks at them, those in love, those beautiful, the good, the unlucky, the cats without voice, without the partisan liberation, all those,there, hidden behind the cornerand, I say, that's the gun, the firearm, expose them, they beat upnonoMrs. leaves the broom, guns, takes off his face scratched by the looktakes off his disappointment and curlers and slippers hatred, closed behind,and goes with themwith the finest, the deluded, the intelligent, the good, the beautiful, lovers, other bills, other loved ones, old turned back, deludedalways a buzz and get away,buzz and run,alwaysRing the bell and run away.
And after I read them, these two books of poetry, I happened to think in more ways, and I could happily live my life prose. Then I started reading them, books of poems. And while I was at my parents' house, inside a cupboard, I found a poem I wrote many years ago, was and is the only poem I ever wrote, I was twenty or so, went like this:
NothingbanksFor tears that flowincessantFrom my eyesChainedFrom your eyes
* **
all is quietas alwayswhen EVERYTHING goes to hell
I think I had just been dropped.