Poesie

Worn out soles
by the countless steps
on stones
on symmetry between sky and sea on asymmetry of the roads
worn out as well
tired
never ever so much
to cease the desire to walk
and observe
my skin
crash with new airs
new breaths
new skins
that I imagine touching mine enough to tremble
and dream
to make visible to eyes
outsiders
strangers
love between day and night sunrise and sunset
hands through hair
hands between life
and the kiss
on the forehead
everywhere.

Tidy
but heedless
sometimes
with consumed polish on the nails the ink on the hands
that doesn’t take off
words don’t wash
or the stains of laughter
innocent exchanges of smiles young
and me here
stupid that I still write
of past trains
full.
Then recognize the right one.

Imaginary loves are these that I describe and live.
I don’t deprive myself of them,
Because they act like a diversion,
Since they are an emotional and creative attempt to play, And to keep on the skin a brand,
A scrawl by a youth artist collector
of past memories, scared,
forgiven
and of researched futures Grabbed to the unknown. Antidote of Glory:
we write our history,
page after page
and we keep it in the cellar until it becomes divine.

Hidden in the streets
I remain elate by the prospects
And the slow movements that I cling to relieve myself from noises.
The balance, however, still marks melancholy and I let myself be crossed by the rapid intermittent light headlights.
I swallow grainy flavors of which I engage soporific mechanisms by lying
helpless
tickled by life.

Let it be,
how does the skin taste:
without questioning it invites you to taste every little snap
of verve
of shiver
which leaves a bruise
colorful,
multi-colored.

The resurgent light on the wall
I invoke
that displaces me, seductive
and it is not a mistaken.
Who knows what a distorted idea he has of me
or dead
but it comforts me
and carries me
opening in a gap
of cosmic magnitude:
here: my heartbeat.

By looking at you
i feel an elder sensation

like earth,
like mother earth,
on which they grow
strings of grass
and the bittersweets,
a green sky
of yellow stars.

A memory from infancy,
sweet scented smoke
of tangerine wood
turned into embers.

What is it like to be
freer than the wind?

Everything starts as a joke
and someone sleeps well!

I was eating the wind of the sea,
dedicating songs and misusing the sun.
You who set it free, died it out and never listened to it.
Freedom limits us
it relieves us only in half.
I promise I can’t know it.
How some fences free us
they make us sure.

If all time would come now,
the sky would be white and
it would find me exhausted.

White also the night.
Exhausted also at night.
Is it so hard to imagine?

I walk barefoot, with wavering steps
carrying on my skin
light clothes made
of all my insecurities

Afraid of breaking apart
under their gaze
I never leave myself exposed,
at the mercy of passengers
of their empty and disdainful faces

Sewn on the skin I carry
my heavy demons
my suffocating insecurities
gathered up over the years.