I completely forgot

her voice,

her character,

her face

her words.

Whenever she tuned the guitar 

her hair fell against the fretboard, covering it, blackness on wood.

She’s this gesture

and nothing else.

Mi stanchi, sei foglie d’ottobre

i fari delle macchine passate.

Mi piace ricordarti, ma solo raramente, e solo

per tatuarci sui rossi gomiti di una casa americana,

due che si hanno poco da dire

camminando insieme.

The youngest sister, falling for the pale flutist,
his hands like untouched paper like parchment
eager to recieve her loving words,
the warm stain of her passion
her lust, her confessions.

The youngest sister (Christine),
sitting in the uncomfortable chair of adolescence,
aroused as the melody breaks in, left empty as it fades
so empty she wants to die.

She dreams of the quicksilver eyes
he keeps shut on the rapid passages,
his parchment paper fingers soaring, the
space he creates
the devilish charm
of his music
in her skin.

Picture a hall full of people

who know you,

full of readymade smiles,

swift goodbyes.

Picture how it would feel

to betray your own blood,

while you’re drinking from it copiously.

Can you picture

the film of prejudice people spin around you, the taste

of the echoing voices, the unison of envy and mistrust

and the clacking of half empty glasses

the chattering you’re not supposed to hear

the night that never arrives, and never passes?

Can you imagine,

brick one,

it’s just yourself

challenging the ice ages of stubbornness,

standing tall amongst the silence in your veins

that call for another road, ignoring it

have you ever felt this

do you picture it

do you feel

it?

There’s Bittersweet
in your savannah colors
your earthborn beauty,
the shades of warmth that you have mastered.

As you take short sips in
a much too northern bar,
I picture your laugh, no echo, just wilderness.

A naked laugh in the shapes of your body, ondulating like
untied knots, hands like ivy, all encompassing
complex, renewed, rainshower loud, unrestrained.

There’s Bittersweet
in your caged essence.

Short elevator ride, eyes meet, circa 2-3 seconds time, furtive

your smile asks a dirty question,

then back to normal life.

So breaking a heart is easy
but hiding the pieces well enough
takes quite some practice.

You smell
Like birth.

Dizziness, northern water lights
I observe everyone passing.
One
must be you after all,
in this mesmerizing heat I don’t quite remember
your face.

Meeting a stranger at Landungsbrücken, or a lover, or both
I flirt with the option of just leaving
ripping a page too obviously written
just back in the car, keyturn, head south
but I wait.

I didn’t ask if you wanted me to come here, small
arrogance, I knew you did. Strangers
know lots about each other.

So I’m here in this deep north,
Mediterranean salt still in my shoes.

And you arrive. Summer purse, no promises,
your smile: like a black cat’s purr.

Where do they go
those slivers of me and you
that we forced into each other
late July?

Unfortunately for you, me and all breathing things

fear

is a broken body dragged across your streets, tragic companion.

It’s the glass shards in your milk,

your teeth in a jar.

If you don’t

REACT!

it gets you, red ball gag and all,

and dominates you.

So please

laugh in its face

tell it to go fuck itself

and do

what you know you need to do.

Yep, one of those nights

moon rolling down your naked hips, it’s a peeping Tom, an intruder

waves are not crashing, they’re a bit shocked, prudently retreating (sand

is not the best material for sleep,

but works beautifully

for all the rest).

I wonder if someone will find us tomorrow sound asleep, a chuckle, a grin

or if we managed to disappear

into each other

like sand

The only way to
Melody
is numbness in your fingers
years of longing for the truth to ring out of your chest.
Battling apparitions of futility
standing strong against silence, filling up every tiny space
he’d never realized that this
was the mistake.
Silence chanted truth to him, but he
kept hollering over it like a drunk
Fool.

Swept like tide from my mother’s chamber

(so lonely since she passed away)

I hear her voice calling.

full moon

rarely that splendid

a geisha robe of sky

it pours dim shades of magic

over my grey and flatlined life.

It is then I hear her laughter

or are they laments? I cannot tell

like a soothing chant of peacefulness

like a moderate, tightened yell

humanity cannot bear such beauty

as She comes closer to me

she whispers, but makes no sound

her childlike feet not touching ground-

it is then i hear her laughter

for the first time I hear it well- 

like a poem of obscenities

like a lullaby from hell.

I’m lost to this, I wanted this

I’m deafened to reason and to God

as she cuts through me with devil’s

teeth

I am a child

not yet born, a shadow

to be maimed by light,

the truth

spoken through a drunk beggar’s mouth.

It’s too easy to just say “anything can happen”.

There’s mostly bored adulthood behind those words,

dried up sticks of imagination, dust.

But really, “anything

can happen”,

she told him as she leapt

and disappeared

and traded the spiraling numbness

for tsunamis of chance,

unrestrained curiosity

and the total freedom

to fall

whenever she wants to.