mercoledì 13 maggio 2015

Ri-suona

{È da stamattina che mi risuona in testa}

[Ci sarà un motivo]

(Sì che c'è e so benissimo quale sia)

Come quando ti balena in testa un'idea. Come un'incursione continua. Come loop di 'Lo sapevo io'. Come pseudonimo di gruppo dietro cui ti celi te, solista. Come aria cristallina che ti chiarifica l'intento. Come colpo inferto, immaginario, ma anche più doloroso.



Come schiuma ondeggiante. Come rivolo che avanza e s'allunga. Come immagine di me riflessa su specchio. A me. E viceversa.




Ultimamente son qui più spesso che su altri social http://youramusoduro.tumblr.com


Come scia boreale all'imbrunire. Come pullulare subacqueo di there must be a way. Come impeto frenato I suppose they never will be.



Come te che giochi con i punti. Come me che cerco di seguire i tuoi. Come punto di forza in due. Come sognare ad occhi aperti 'troppo o troppo poco'. Come spirito catturato. Come totalità solo abbozzata. Come forma per niente plasmata, ma non per questo meno realistica.

(Non cito volentieri)

[Ma questa volta lo faccio]

{Ci sarà un motivo, e io so quale sia}



The Crunch by Charles Bukowski

too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers

strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and ****
virgins.

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-**** winners

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about
it.

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
"no."

The love is dog from hell

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