A.192

Half empty, there’s no glass.
Half full is the other one.
Existential struggle,
searching for something.
For me, but the moral one,
the one who could
Spill
the water and
Still
seeing it like a normal glass,
not a moral one.

72 copioni sul mio tavolo.
72 parti.
Come mazzi di carte,
disordine da ogni parte,
commedia dell’arte,
che metto da parte.
Nasce in me un dubbio,
un quesito.
Rimango basito.
Non dico il dubbio,
troppo scontato.
Butto 6 copioni,
arrabbiato.

Pausa ad effetto,
colgo l’attimo,
butto altri 10 copioni,
in un battito
che accelera, meschino.
Altri 3 copioni sotto al comodino.
Sono un attore,
decoro lo sguardo
di chi mi circonda,
lascio cadere altre 4 carte.
Le raccolgo e le lancio,
più lontano,
le guardo laggiù dietro la mano.

Altre 11, bagnate,
si sciolgono,
scottate,
da me e dalla verità,
mangio 2 copioni
in velocità.
Ne rimane la metà,
meglio sbrigarsi,
ne strappo altri 6 sparsi.
Fa male perdere un amico,
ne perdo 3 davanti a me,
1 alto, 1 medio e 1 basso.
Cos’è questo fracasso?

Sento battere,
con strazio,
un pezzo di manzo,
che mi rimbomba
tra petto
e schiena.
Non fare così,
le loro idee,
sogni, difetti e
posture. Son loro.
Non ci pensi a me, cuore?
Sei così grande da esserti
dimenticato.

Sei cresciuto troppo,
non me ne sono accorto.
Lo avrei impedito.
Muovi tu ora, questa mano
mentre sfoglia,
giri questa ruota che mi investe.
Vittima stupida di un errore,
morto,
ucciso dal proprio cuore.
Come un vero attore.

Rimangono 22 amici lì sul tavolo,
sepolti da empatia,
e melodrammaticità.

Prologue
I wasn’t asking u that
I’m leaving
I won’t lose to you
I won’t lose u.

This is the poem of an hero
a lonely one,
whos smoking cause some trouble
cause u know
he’s too hot tempered
but the people can’t know bout this
cause u know
people don’t.

Hes gone
the hero is gone.
He couldnt bear the truth
so he lied to himself and fade away
just his corpse remains
there, in front of u
asking u why
u needed that.

For that I mean That.
The u leaving me Thing
the u asking me to bear all of this
Thing,
these things
that I wanted to tell u
weren’t the ones my corpse did
I think

I think it’s normal
to withstand,
escaping.
This hero is an animal
an animal so conscious
that he’s conscious of him
bein an animal
he thinks.

Do this thoughts belong to him?
Yes, but people don’t think that way.
They give him the property,
that’s Locke,
but they couldn’t finish the book.
So they call him Animal,
instead of Human
both wrong, anyway.

He’s an hero
cause he needed to call himself like that,
and it’s hyronic
cause thats enough
to let him be one.
Crowd, please.
Paesants, please.
Let him through.

Dispose of his corpse,
I can tell u where it is
but u should be warned
that’s not him
please don’t think of it like him.
U can find it here
inside my head
if u are patient enough.

Maybe I should be the patient
one
Ahahahah
u don’t need to understand the pun
to laugh
if u can empathize
Then, very soon,
u will be able to laugh.

Geez, it sounds so creepy
but u’re not animals,
u should be able to whitstand that
maybe u could’ve whitstand even that
And That
and the fact that I couldn’t
is screaming
that I’m not normal

Surely not normal enough
to be considered normal.
But if I’m not
then I need to be special
in a good way.
Who just rediscovered himself as abnormal
Would’ve chosen the bad way?
I’m a Hero, I can’t do bad.

Maybe my corpse can, I don’t know
but it’s not like people
can choose what bad is.
Its so unfair, Jesus.
U cruel motherfucker,
haven’t I the right to scream my pain?
What kind of awful system u build it up?
Pain got this name only when other 7 billions people share with u this awful perception of the feeling. This sucks so much, just cause u suck even more, people. 

I was writing many more screamin verses.
But my hero got up to take some whiskey
and when he returned
he was so calm
that he couldnt recognize
those verses
at the very least
u’ve all been saved by your hero.

For now.

Prologue
I wasn’t asking u that
Im leaving
I won’t lose to you
I won’t lose u.

This is the poem of an hero
a lonely one,
whos smoking cause some trouble
cause u know
he’s too hot tempered
but the people can’t know bout this
cause u know
people don’t.

Hes gone
the hero is gone.
He couldnt bear the truth
so he lied to himself and fade away
just his corpse remains
There, in front of u
asking u why
u needed that.

For that I mean That.
The u leaving me Thing.
The u asking me to bear all of this
Thing,
these things
that I wanted to tell u
weren’t the ones my corpse did
I think.

I think it’s normal
to withstand,
escaping.
This hero is an animal
an animal so conscious
that he’s conscious of him
bein an animal
he thinks.

Do this thoughts belong to him?
Yes, but people don’t think that way.
They give him the property,
that’s Locke,
but they couldn’t finish the book.
So they call him Animal,
instead of Human
both wrong, anyway.

Hes an hero
cause he needed to call himself like that,
and it’s hyronic
cause thats enough
to let him be one.
Crowd, please.
Paesants, please.
Let him through.

Dispose of his corpse,
I can tell u where it is
but u should be warned
that’s not him
please don’t think of it like him.
U can find it here
inside my head
if u are patient enough.

Maybe I should be the patient
One
Ahahah
u don’t need to understand the pun
to laugh
if u can empathize
then, very soon,
u will be able to Laugh.

Geez, it sounds so creepy
but u’re not animals,
u should be able to whitstand That
maybe u could’ve whitstand even That
and That
and the fact that I couldn’t
is screaming
that I’m not normal.

Surely not normal enough
to be considered normal.
But if I’m not
then I need to be special
in a good way.
Who, just rediscovered himself as abnormal,
would’ve chosen the bad way?
I’m a Hero, I can’t do bad.

Maybe my corpse can, I don’t know
but it’s not like people
can choose what bad is.
Its so unfair, Jesus.
U cruel motherfucker,
haven’t I the right to scream my pain?
What kind of awful system u build it up?
Pain got this name only when other 7 billions people share with u this awful perception of the feeling. This sucks so much, just cause u suck even more, people. 

I was writing many more screamin verses.
But my hero got up to take some whiskey
and when he returned
he was so calm
that he couldnt recognize
those verses
at the very least
u ve all been saved by your hero.

For now.

It’s not that easy to forget.
Whiskey and wine
ain’t that easy to swallow.
They remember all the horrible things that they’re drain with them,
that’s probably why the stomach
ache so bad.
I’m a goddamm actor, fuck it.
Those are the words that I
wanna spell on me, but I can’t.
They’re not mine anymore.
They belong to me,
but not the same me
who’s swallowing this whiskey.
So I lie, and write
them on me anyway.
I’m an actor after all.
Do I believe in that, not at all.
But I think that the me that it was, did.
I miss him.

Sfocate essenze
colorano il mio futuro.
Leggo su queste il mio viso,
scavato dal fumo.

Una mano afferra,
cercando l’inutile
e trovando un fondo,
al di là della nube.

Una percussione ritmica e scostante
mi brucia l’orecchio.
Un viso, altrettanto scostante,
mi si para davanti, come un coperchio.

Mio padre da giovane,
con barba e pizzetto,
si manifesta candido,
senza alcun difetto.

O padre mio! Sei proprio tu?
Ma perché ti mostri proprio ora?
In questa dimensione,
così lontano ed etereo?

“Etereo er cazzo -risponde qualcuno-
vacce piano co’ la bamba
quello è ‘o specchio.”

Non tutte le persone
hanno da insegnare.
Forse, davvero, ti è rimasto
poco da imparare.
Questo ti fa male, lo so,
sei stato fin troppo curioso.
Ma ascolta questo mio borbottio:
abbiamo chiesto troppo
dalle tele, dalla gente
dai libri, dai libri
abbiamo chiesto troppe volte Dio.
Non ci basta, ogni orgasmo
guarda il successivo.
Il mondo sembra svelato
e ci fa schifo.
Io scrivo
in un angolino,
celato dall’anonimato,
con tono aggressivo
perché, in fin dei conti,
questo spazio è solo mio.
Tutto questo realizzo
grazie a questa poesia.
Questa, mia, non è arte,
questa è terapia.
Questo è il me birbante
che sente i bisogno
-straripante-
di chiederti cosa ti aspetti
da questa vita,
da questa poesia altalenante.

Cercasi ragazza…
È inutile, non la cercare.
Cercasi definizione di “ragazza”…
Non credo si possa dare.
Cercasi requisiti necessari…
Ancora?
Cercasi modi per non offendere…
Non è questo il punto. e sai una cosa?
Io so un sacco di cose.
Tu non puoi trovare l’amore.
Io ho già un robottino a casa.
Non intendevo questo.
Ci trovi qualcosa di così magico?
Beh, sì! È proprio per questo che…
Beh, ti sbagli!
Non c’è niente di magico,
è solo passione,
agire di persone.
Non puoi farne una questione
Svegliati coglione!
Sei innamorato dell’amore,
li odio quelli come te.
Come puoi odiare?
Sei latta e bulloni,
vivi per imitare
sentimenti che non provi
che non puoi provare.
Io sono il tuo limite,
il comando che ti serve.
Non ho bisogno di te,
sarà l’amore a trovare me.

Con questa frase ad effetto
spengo il telefono ed aspetto.
La mia testa, ancora calda,
compone interminabili giri.
Ancora perplesso, sentenzio
“Sta cazzo de Siri…”

I don’t wanna.
I fear the Death.
[Why don’t better words came to me?]
Define this sensation, it’s hard.
What? Defining it or the sensation itself?
Both.
So is this a dialogue now?
Between me and who?
Maybe me it’s enough.
So let’s make a toast,
without laugh.
[Is it blood what I just coughed?]
I don’t wanna live anymore.
The fear of the Death…
That’s crap.
But you know that,
don’t ya?

Seems to be rainy, the damn…
The bloody
rainy
Death.

Finisco di mangiare,
poggio i coltelli sul tavolo.
Mi tolgo gli occhi
e li rimetto nel solito scaffale.
Mi alzo, le mani bucate in tasca,
e la bella testa mi gira non sento più
la sedia dietro di me la strana utile
sedia che ha non so quante zampe è sparita
dove cazzo è andata come farò con il mio pesciolino Wanda…

il vuoto dietro la schiena si riempie.
Il buio, ora
intorno a me.
Nelle mani,
non più bucate,
stringo un lenzuolo
bianco,
ma che, nel buio,
non posso vedere.