The white section contains poems born from moments of extreme psycho-physical suffering.
These are poems where disease and the sense of imminent death prevail, expressed through landscapes of the soul in extreme paralysis in the face of the stagnation of vital energies.
What prevails is the discomfort that nothing can change; the awareness that pain, in its continuous iteration, continually digs in depth, increasingly removing the possibility of being reached by any light source of redemption and evolution. It is the perception of not being able to change skin, of not being able to make the necessary leap over the moat.
Feelings of paralysis and impossibility pervade.
Quando mi trovo a “ribaltare” i letti del manicomio ch’è la mia mente, trovo sempre le lenzuola sporche.
Qualcuno lascia sempre qualcosa di sé, ma qualcosa di sporco, una volta che se n’è andato.
Forse lasciano la loro stessa essenza, quei residui sono come la loro impronta digitale,
per me.
Sporco.
Forse solo per me, ma qui la relatività ha poca importanza:
io devo comunque lavare le lenzuola e riordinare la stanza.
Non sono così ingenua da credere che i prossimi ospiti vi lasceranno un minimo d’ ordine.
Dicono che gli ospiti li si debba educare prima ch’essi alberghino nella tua stanza, ma costoro sono così bravi nel rifare il letto ogni giorno, che tu non te ne accorgi che alla fine della loro natura e del loro vero essere:
quando disfi tutto.
Ora è tutto calmo ed ordinato.
La luce azzurrina filtra appena e lega i letti tra loro con un filo di luce che posandosi sulle spalliere metalliche le fa esistere.
Sono così fredde, ora.
Coi miei ospiti presenti sono invece di quel tiepido malato che scalda l’aria rendendola densa, pesante ed irrespirabile.
Tutto sarebbe perfetto qui, ora;
ma già bussa il primo ospite.
Whenever I find myself turning the beds of that lunatic asylum which my mind is, I always find dirty sheets.
Someone always leaves something behind, something dirty,
once he has left.
Maybe they leave here their own essence,
those residues are like their fingerprints for me.
Dirt.
Maybe it’s my own impression, but I think that here relativity doesn’t matters: I have to wash the sheets anyway and tidy up the whole room.
I’m not so naive to believe that the next guests will leave a little clean.
It’s told that you have to educate your guests before they occupy your room, but they’re so good in making the bed every day, that only at the end you realize their true nature and their true being,
so you undo everything.
Now everything is calm, clean.
The pale blue light filters just for a little bit and ties the beds with a light’s thread, that while laying on the metallic heads makes them exist.
They’re so cold now.
When my guests are here, the beds’ heads are of that sick warm that heat the air, making it thick, stuffy and unbreatheable.
Everything would be perfect , here, now;
but the next guest already knocks at the door.
Respiro sofficemente affannoso.
le fughe delle piastrelle scorrono velocemente all’infinito.
Vene precarie conducono liquido precario. Il morbo scorre.
Il corpo è eroso placidamente, serenamente,
inconsciamente divorato dall’onda inconsapevole e morbosa dell’immaginario.
Appesi alla vitalità di un battito cardiaco.
Tachicardia: il tempo accelera l’erosione;
il cervello non controlla più il corpo;
il corpo si avvia veloce ad un volontario suicidio.
L’istinto di sopravvivenza è nel cervello.
Il corpo è massa che corre verso la decomposizione.
Sono sdraiata nel bianco, nella nebbia delle mie supposizioni.
L’angolo del soffitto, il punto dove le pareti si incontrano
e formano quella nota ombra,
è il rifugio del mio sguardo.
Fuori di me.
È la capanna dei miei stati paranoici, dalla quale dovrei fuggire,
ma che catalizzano la mia attenzione.
Ma è tutto bianco e non c’è strada da seguire.
Il rumore dell’erosione.
Dentro di me.
Polvere.
Il cancro è aggrappato alle pareti del mio corpo: non cerca fughe.
Le radici affondano a piene mani, tentacoli impietosi, nel mio sangue.
Sono sdraiata nel bianco, nella nebbia delle mie supposizioni.
Rosso. Bianco. Nero.
Non sento
più
nulla.
Softly difficult breathing.
The tiles’ gaps flow fast without end.
Precarious veins carry precarious liquid, the infectious is flowing.
The body is eroded peacefully, quietly,
unconsciously devoured by the unwitting and morbid wave of the immaginary.
Hanging on the vitality of a heartbeat.
Tachicardia: Time accelerates the erosion;
the brain doesn’t control the body anymore;
the body approaches fast to a voluntary suicide.
Survival instinct lays in the brain.
The body is mass running towards decomposition.
I’m lying in the white, in the fog of my suppositions.
The corner of the ceiling, the point where the walls connect
and shape that well-known shadow,
it’s the shelter of my glance.
Outside me.
It’s the cabin of my paranoid states, from which I should escape,
but that catalyze my attention.
But now everything is white and there’s no path to follow.
The erosion noise.
Inside me.
Dust.
The cancer is grasped to the walls of my body: it doesn’t search a way out.
The roots sink greedly, merciless tentacles, in my blood.
I’m lying in the white, in the fog of my suppositions.
Red. White. Black
I feel
nothing
anymore.
They were all there: the letter opener, the angel, the ghosts, the clown, the Pierrot, the Hamletic doubt.
They were all there, around her, but the clown did not laugh, the angel was diabolical, the ghosts were made of stone and they did not dance.
Even the letter opener no longer cut.
The angel put on lipstick and the clown took off his make-up; Pierrot laughed and Hamlet played cards with razor blades.
But why was everything always so absurd around her?
Why were things always out of place? “
Passaggio.
Ho lasciato dietro di me così tante cose.
Tutto dietro di me.
Il silenzio glaciale al mio fianco.
Il silenzio della riflessione.
Un ponte lungo, attraversato e attraversato di nuovo.
Poi c’é stata l’ ultima volta, l’ attacco del popolo delle passioni.
Ci dev’essere stato un momento durante il quale la mia terra mi ha chiamata e il silenzio ha sentito, s’é voltato verso di me con sguardo duramente glaciale e mi ha proposto il cielo o gli abissi.
Così ecco il mio ritorno tra le nubi lasciando una parte della mia anima
e pezzi della mia anima su quel ponte.
Non bastavano preghiere, né la più alta e profonda fede, la fede nel cielo e negli abissi, per resuscitare un atomo di sentimento.
Ho dato tutta me stessa; ho perso tutta me stessa.
Evoluzione. Sono diventata qualcos’altro, ma é come se anziché cambiare pelle
io avessi lasciato tutto il contenuto ed ora mi aggirassi, involucro,
implorante un contenuto.
Ho dato tutta me stessa; ho perso tutta me stessa.
È anche giunto il momento durante il quale ogni parte si é lentamente riformata, come se si formassero cellule nuove.
Ma non sono le mie cellule native e molti dei loro caratteri non sono i miei innati.
Evoluzione.
Rimanere attaccati alla stessa natura non sarebbe forse neanche stato corretto.
Trovare gli abissi nel cielo é opera che costa fatica.
Ci sono momenti, nella vita, durante i quali si crede d’essere nel cielo e
si é già immersi negli abissi, corpo e anima.
Negli abissi, in quelli veri: in quelli che ti assorbono
fino all’ ultimo respiro,
fino all’ ultimo pensiero.
Fino all’ ultimo sentimento.
Fino all’ ultimo sentimento sparso sul ponte.
Passaggio, evoluzione.
Straniamento.
Sintesi.
Cambiamento.
Ride.
I have left so many things behind me.
All behind me.
The icy silence by my side.
The silence of reflection.
A long bridge, crossed and crossed again.
Then there was the last time, the attack by the people of passions.
There must have been a moment during which my land called me and the silence heard it, turned towards me with a harsh glacial gaze and offered me the sky or the abysses.
So here is my return in the clouds leaving a part of my soul
and pieces of my soul on that bridge.
Prayers, nor the highest and deepest faith, faith in heaven and in the abyss, were not enough to resurrect an atom of feeling.
I gave all myself; I have lost all of myself.
Evolution. I have become something else, but it is as if instead of changing skin
I had left all the contents and now I was wandering around, wrapping,
begging for content.
I gave all myself; I have lost all of myself.
The time has also come during which each part slowly reformed, as if new cells were formed.
But they are not my native cells and many of their characters are not my innate ones.
Evolution.
Staying attached to the same nature might not even have been correct.
Finding the abysses in the sky is a work that costs effort.
There are moments in life when you believe you are in the sky and
he is already immersed in the abyss, body and soul.
In the abyss, in the real ones: in those that absorb you
until the last breath,
until the last thought.
Until the last feeling.
Until the last sentiment spread on the bridge.
Passage, evolution.
Strangulation.
Synthesis.
Change.
“Carmina in Spiritum” is the result of a period particularly inspired by precise and profound astral conjunctions that determined the compositions in a praxis that I would dare to define mystical. The cosmic and absolute dimension of the texts, which goes to the limit of invocation to self-annihilation, consists of a series of carmina (chants, hymns) dedicated to the elements or spirits that hold the main inner forces holding the spirit and preserving it in the its strength and integritas.
The hermeticism of these short compositions is witness to instantaneous gesture, to immediate thought; the ultimate expression of the synthesis of sensation, where inner and outer universe coincide to the point of getting lost in the snapshot of the image. The haiku, eidolon of the feeling, is an overview, a picture of a section of reality which is transfigured and permeated by the feeling itself.
This collection of poems contains those compositions which occurred in a particular state of mystical-revealing ecstasy. While “Carmina in Spiritum” are poems written in a state of possession (enthusiasmòs); in this case they are mostly poems created thanks to a moment of instant revelation, comparable to divine shock, instantaneous, faster, more mental and controlled. These poems sealed illuminating moments of sudden change, of brainwave.
In the “Red Section” are collected those compositions that exude a certain passion that often emerges from our more human side.These are therefore old compositions that have given way to more measured and conscious compositions. However, since the human soul often falls into its chaotic and Dionysian side, I cannot say that this section is only part of past compositions, it remains a section open to any moods that are part of me and therefore sometimes ask to be expressed.
The white section contains poems born from moments of extreme psycho-physical suffering. These are poems where disease and the sense of imminent death prevail, expressed through landscapes of the soul in extreme paralysis in the face of the stagnation of vital energies. What prevails is the discomfort that nothing can change; the awareness that pain, in its continuous iteration, continually digs in depth, increasingly removing the possibility of being reached by any light source of redemption and evolution.
Percezioni Cubitse was my first prose experiment which immediately failed, falling into the form of prose poetry, or surreal prose in the manner of Fernando Pessoa. Born as a kind of Kammerspiel, it soon degenerated into an autobiographical collection of scattered sensations. They are collected here in light of their descriptive value of situations and relationships lived beyond their “real” dimension, following the thread of my particular sensitive virtues.
