was a sunny,
bright child.
but sonny
got cloudier
as the years
went by-
and from infant,
sonny became a man,
with a full beard
right on his face.
but no smiles.

from a dickinsonian
didn’t want
to be a man,
didn’t want
this whole adult thing,
he actually
just wanted to be king
of his own room,
his own walls,
with his thoughts,
his things
in his
not very high throne.

so sonny
and sighed
behind locked doors,
every night
in a quiet routine.

he worked hard on this-
on his reads
and his things,
in pieces
no one else has ever understood.
he worked hard
to reap what he though
was his golden wheat;
witnessed only by shadows
and imaginary pictures,
sonny stood
with a red carnation
in hand.
on his very coronation day,
sonny was crowned-
a crown of sorrows
and thorns-
king only
of his own despair.

poesia leggera


give me
some quick poetry.
something fast
to fire up
my soul,
to lift up
a bored spirit,
something happy
to brighten up
a shitty party
where everyone’s thinking
about their shitty lives
in the corners of dark rooms,
or even something
a little bland
and not very meaningful
that could become
an empty pop song
that plays softly
in clothing stores
and supermarkets,
something instant
to make housewives forget
their bills and apathy,
something easy
that drunks could recite
in the bombarded
city square,
fast, uneventful rhymes
just to break the silence,
nothing very cryptic,
nor elaborate,
just something little
and loud
to make the kids smile.

don’t be tardy!



in a moment
the heart
no longer beat.
there was no sound,
only a deafening silence,
and the grave doctor’s voice
off the walls.

his words were mangled.
between the science
and the sorrys
no one really listened
nor understood.

the void
in the womb-
that absence-
like concrete.
the smell
of pine
and disinfectant
stifled the listeners, clear
and overpowering.

at only 20,
she wanted
to flee
and never come back,
but she was stuck in place,
her body heavy
and formless
like heavy water.
she wanted to join
the kids in the waiting room
and win
their screaming contest,
but everything
was stuck in her throat
and nothing came out.

the sheets
in the bed
were scratchy,
but all white and neat.
with the covers,
she made the warm cocoon
she couldn’t be
for someone else.

she cradled herself
in the warmth of the sun
and tried thinking
about the feelings
that she couldn’t name.
but the sadness
and the anger
were the only tangible
she could
the only things
that clung in the corners of the room.

she fell asleep
for 24 hours straight,
a heavy
dreamless sleep.

an infant’s cry
sounded far away,
disturbing the clinical air,
but it was delirious.

in malady,
she then woke up,
had a piece
of plain toast
and never once
went to sleep again.



from the moment i saw you,
i was enchanted
by your treacherous
and your disarmingly
thick thighs.

i looked deliberately,
a single drop
of respect in sight.

a gift
to my pleased eyes…
nothing hurt.
the moment stood,
suspended in time.

but what a treason
it is
to be caught
in the prison
of my own desire.

it’s unforgiving

but i paid
in full
for my crime,
i did the time.

i reached to stroke-
a pleading finger-
to touch
without any words:
come closer.

and under the
sharp smell
of your cologne,
i felt the faint,
clear scent
of lavender-
right in the crease
of your arm
(a delightful crevice)
in the crook of your neck,
and where
it meets your jaw.

song of mourn


you made me adore you,
worship you,
but i couldn’t
make you choose me.

the worst kind
of love
isn’t the one
that ends-
but really
the one that lurks still,
just enough
to be there,
an unspoken goodbye,
but not solid,
but not enough
never enough
to keep
us together;

to make you stay.

the breaks


a honk, a horn,
an engine revs up-
my chest swells
with a baited breath
and the blood pumps
to my head;
my ear
with all the ringing
picks up
that faint,
final sound:
a dry thump
as the body
hit the ground.

an there it lays
on the asphalt,
terrifyingly still.

there is not much commotion though;
i gasp in horror,
an old lady prays
“god have mercy”,
a cop
blows his whistle,
raising a hand
to stop traffic.

but to the rest of the fast legs
of the city center,
in all their hustle
and bustle,
in all their late appointments
and hurried lunch breaks
and business hours,
the body
is just a sad story,
not anyone’s mother
nor daughter,
barely a person!
a fleeting worry
and, in worse case scenario,
maybe even
an inconvenience.



no life
is ever lost, darling,
nor wasted.

when we go, honey-
that is, the body,
the earthly vessel,
even maybe
the dissipating spirit
if you believe in this-
we leave behind
our thoughts
and our feelings,
our words
and strongest beliefs,
that loving touch,
the warm summer afternoons,
the image of a happy
celebratory toast,
that open, full-teethed
a crying scene,
a slap or a kiss;
all of this
is left
deeply embedded
into the brains
of those willing
to lovingly
or hatefully
remember us



last night,
as i feasted
in the dip
of your hips,
in the valley
of your thighs,
as i wet
my lips
in the honey-dew mist
of your pleasure,
in the sea
of salty sweat
between your breasts-
as i collected
every drop
with the tip
of my tongue,
drawing circles
with the tip
of my thumb-
i came to realize
that this hunger
is one
that i never wish
to satiate;

it’s a burn
i wish
never ceases.

let it burn me whole.

the actress/the poet


you just love me best
when i am not really yours,
when you cannot have me,
when i keep you at arms length.

you love me the most
when you cannot grab me,
hold me,
or when i go away,
closing the door behind me
saying “maybe, just maybe,
this time i won’t come back”.
you love me just then
because that’s when
you get to cry and say:
see? i really love her more
than she loves me;
she’s always making me chase her,
i can never get her to stay.

and the reality
has already hit me hard:
you really love
the idea of love
more than you love me.
you love the distance
for the idea of longing,
the burning yearning
of unrequited love
in the loins…
the moping
and looking sad, like a movie,
waiting for the phone to ring

you love making me prove
and saying it out loud
that i love you.
but truth is, it’s exhausting.

and more than anything
you love
the picture of the abandoned lover,
the rush, the chase,
the self-imposed heartbreak,
pushing me away
to play
this holier-than-thou part.



i wish
it was easy
between us.

i wish
you’d understand
that when i hug you
and say
that i love you,
i really mean it,
all the time
and in my bones.

i cherish you
every single day
explicitly and implicitly.
i give you my heart
in the form of my words,
and all my sayings.

i want you-
know that! please!-
even though
i’m some days
more silent and away,
or when i seem
terrified to stay,
and even paradoxically
in those odd months
when i never seem to leave
and almost smother you
with my pile of needs-
i just love you.

i want to be here
when you need me,
in the drop of the hat
of your want,
in a polite, timely manner,
in a sickening-sweet
margarine-ad scene,
but it’s a fight sometimes
my head
and my heart
and my anxiety
and my fears.
and i’m sorry.
i truly am.
i am just a little broken.

i want you to know
that all my poems
are for you
(have my words, my honey,
have them,
or discard them,
they are yours…)

that when i give you my love,
i want you to have it
and keep it
and do as you please,
that i want my arms
to be your home,
and i want to find solace
in your bones
and between
the warmth of your thighs;
that late into the cold nights,
i want to go to sleep
in the softness of your chest
to the sound of your singing rhymes
and the brush of your fingers on my hair,
i want to be held,
and later wake up
always under the blinding light of your smile.

do know
that i want to make you happy
and for you to make me happy-
i want my heart
to be your heart,
and my love
to be your cozy,
lovely warm home,
i want to end our endings
and shorten my shortcomings.

i want
for you
to never forget about me.

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