e il naufragar m'e' dolce in questo mare?

tu portami via
dai giudizi cattivi
da questo abbrutirsi
dentro a riti banali
insegnami come si fa
a non sentirsi di troppo
e a non avere sempre dentro
il mare d'inverno

life isn’t about
waiting for the storm
to pass.

it’s about
learning
to dance
in the rain.


vuoi ballare?

E-soul

I listed my soul on eBay. I set a very high reserve price (the secret one, the minimum acceptable amount to be reached for the sale to take place). I can let you in on it: a million euros. I got the idea from an old Peppone and don Camillo movie. The priest persuades a communist to sell his soul for a thousand liras, “since you don’t believe it exists anyway.” In the end, the man begs the priest to sell his soul back to him. I was sure of myself, even though I had just finished reading an interview to an (alleged) actress, titled: “Even clams have a soul.” She wasn’t a mussel, so what did she know?

Right after I listed my item, I started getting the first small offers. The usual curious, penniless folks. However, someone posted about it on blogs, and soon it appeared on websites, TV, and even newspapers. “A guy is selling his soul on eBay.” Offers started pouring in. 300,000 from Colin Powell, who lost his own convincing the UN that Saddam was preparing the atomic bomb. 400,000 from Alan Sorrenti, who used to be a serious singer. 800,000 from Berlusconi, “then I’ll give it back to him, poor chap, I do it for him, in my infinite kindness.” 850,000 from the Pope, because one thing is to evoke something, another is to show it in a glass jar from the window in St. Peter’s (“p.s.: I’ll pay double for the whole Trinity”). Finally, one million, as I wanted. From an unknown buyer. The devil, most likely.

I got an empty box, put a bow on it and sent it to the buyer’s p.o. box. I got credited a million euros on my bank account. The day after I, I, bought a small boat, a Ferrari, a Rolex, ten tailored suits and a platinum nose-hair trimmer. At that stage I realized that, believe it or not, I had, after all, sold my soul.

[http://www.repubblica.it/2003/g/rubriche/naviinbottiglia/e-soul/e-soul.html]

you're not a person, you're a disease

you made me regret being helpful
you made me regret being forgiving
you made me regret giving another chance
you made me regret trying to forget
you made me regret being patient
you made me regret trying to do the right thing
you made me regret being me

all this life that you've been taking
deep inside, my heart is breaking
broken home from separation
don't you know it's violation?
it's so wrong, but you'll see
never gonna let you take my world from me
the world outside these walls may know you're breathing
but you ain't comin' in

when (and if) the cracks in the shield become wide enough, when i can't contain it anymore, when it starts to ooze, you better brace yourself.
it's coming.
it's after you.
and it won't be pretty.

'nuff said

i know, i know, it's shameless self-celebration. whatever.
but you know what? made me laugh.
and that, in and of itself, is quite an accomplishment.
(the fact that it was written on a semi-official document definitely adds to the hilarity)

1

you saved my life
i wasn't there to save yours

i'm sorry

i hope you can forgive me
because i know i can't forgive myself

buio

hardly more than a blind woman
sitting alone, silently, in a dark room
senses alert, looking for a black cat
searching for something which isn't there

vibrate

my phone's on vibrate for you

god knows what all these new drugs do

i guess to have no more fears

but still i always end up in tears

[r.w.]

the verge is a few frustrations to your left

it's in times like this that i wish i had the linguistic (and mental) ability to regurgitate all the anger and frustration and... and what? if i can't even put it into words. and why anger? against who? frustration, well, maybe. sit at a table, smile, be my better self, introduce myself with witty expressions that will make you smile and maybe even think i'm funny but i'm just trying to... to do what? the message is not in the words, read between the lines ~ why do you want to know who i am? what i do? it's inconsequential, i despise what i do, and what i really do, nobody knows, it's mine, do you really think i care about this? that your pretentious, empty words really make you important in my eyes? that i will look at you in awe? that what you do matters to me? that your pompous abstract lucubrations define who you are? i know that my priorities don't match yours, what you deem so lifesaving, your seemingly vital meetingspaperstheorybusinessbureaucracymoneyappearances and whathaveyou, hey, be my guest, i can gladly do without that, i'll trade all of it for a pair of eyes and a smile, the unmediated, raw, gut-wrenching, heartbreakingly painful, tear-jerkingly sad human side of life, the only (valuable?) trace i want to leave of me ~
leave a mark, sell an image. i'm not good at that. it's heartbreaking to be so fake at times. i swim in my green glass, anchored to the bright, plasticky red of a solitary cherry. no pit, we match. self-involved or self-pitying, the difference at times is so thin, see-through like an indian blouse that shines in an unforgiving sun. i want to be saved by tea. i know i was supposed to offer, but i didn't, and i feel guilty now
stop hinting at it, will ya? stop looking at me, will ya?
but at the same time, i can't let her in
please stop, dinner is turning into a nightmare, stop
i can't take it, it's overwhelmingly saccharine. i can drown in lemons, not in sugar. if only they were red. and my nose stopped bleeding. overflow?

sanity is relative.

leaps

what do you make of a day that doesn't exist?

how do you go through it knowing that for the next three years it will be nothing but a click of a clock's arms? that it will not last longer than the blink of an eye? a breath on your lips? an instance, barely intense (or long) enough to be remembered past the initial awe.

and yet, here you are, living through it as if it were a real day, like any other on the calendar, to mark off as yet one more slice of life silently buried in time past.

what if it was just a dream? and for one day, only one, time stood still, and nothing else mattered?

what if.

take a leap.
of faith.

i never had poetry dedicated to me
or a song.
if you had to give me one,
which would it be?

last shot

time to go

gather momentum

find your balance

aim

good luck

the end

score

after all

that's the goal

or so it seems

T.B.C...

if you say so...

so many plays


so little space

T.B.C...

ready when you are

patiently

waiting

T.B.C...

pick your goal

the coast is clear ~ nobody interferes

one puck ~ color's irrelevant

two goals ~ alike yet different

it's your choice ~ nobody else's


which will you pick?







(part 1 of a short thread dedicated to roller hockey ~ not good enough for a project, but satisfying enough to share)

T.B.C...

cold

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance
For a break that would make it okay
There’s always some reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day
I need some distraction
Oh beautiful release
Memory seeps through my veins
Let me be empty
And weightless and maybe
I’ll find some peace tonight
In the arms of the angel
Fly away from here
From this dark cold hotel room
And the endlessness that you fear
You are pulled from the wreckage
Of your silent reverie
You’re in the arms of the angel
May you find some comfort here

[sml]

di carezza in carezza

di certezza in stupore
tutta questa bellezza senza navigatore
come se gli angeli fossero lì
a dire che si
e' tutto possibile

[l.l.]