"L.DAY.3"
by Paolo Maurizio Bottigelli
The poems were translated by Arlene Ang, with a very small help from Vittorio CurtoniDESCENDING ON FOOT IN A TRANQUIL AFTERNOON
with that fatuous visage they invade without even joyous liturgy with the flesh like a body of some sort, inadmissible and ruined.... a robin encircled by golden rays hidden in the heart breaks voice from within the chorus .................................. with closed eyes learn to hear what the prophecies are celebrating.......... SO MANY THINGS WERE CAUGHT UP WHILE THE PAPER BURNED.....
on white flame her hand and lips a breath in the day ( the fear ) land over which faces glide always into that azure backdrop ...... already another world as if the ruins of "that" past were brought forth written on walls of waterAN EXILE FROM HIMSELF IN THE CZAR'S CHAMBER
I remember the hand in the honey and wood remnants hidden behind the house then the weapons - too raucous and swift for the happiness of the senses Ulysses naked and cunning his prick filled with pus, is dead underground and his notion of time dangles by his flank stretching towards this epoch Among sensual massacres, the laurels tremble around Virgil soul like a bird of the Indies I will free the body without dying.....MAKING SPACE, PREPARING PLACES OF GATHERING
now the open eyes which discover the clearing, abandon the archaic, reflected darkness that hidden darkness which sullies the eyes on sharp stone, blood like a crater of new wine, flies off napalm more outdated that lipstick running with the stream of stars in that body which lengthens on the wallTHE PAINTER LINGERS IN HIS WORLD
Sandy, with tortoise-feet fifteen years, winter beach tongue in the creases of the lips from the heart on my lips white cream crescent moon, do you hear this echo? razor blade which runs from one sea to another.. sleep is now external to the skinIN THE WORLD OF THINGS BEYOND THINGS
the flame leaps and licks the sky heart is the most terrible poison of all can the goldfishes love a ghost? God at your throat opens roads in the spheres of madness sickness, they say, is the beating of the aorta glanders in nasal cavities the speck of dust, a summer refugePURPLE-COLOURED BAR
that powdered rifle pink-thread weft among episcopal gildings the baroque glances pressed into time discover indignant ghosts of maturity London, there at the end of the trip j lennon, arms bonded tall and lean, adored to the teeth...MAGELLAN HIS BODY LIKE A PLACE
his eyes spread out when a mule loaded with gold, Zeus' head wreathed in laurels, recounted the uneven morning with wrinkled hips swaying in the windCHORUS
prophetic serpents enter the emerald rainbow bleeding from menstruationsSICKNESS TOWARDS THE ABYSS
pink flamengos then a home left in a train the world screamed when a revolver went off in the woundCHOLERIC, THE SUMMER DESCENDS ON LAND
and her cheeks at times sunlight oh, but at the moment, there is something to die for and her cheeks at times sunlight let fall the mucous serpent on scaled limeFIRST PART OF THE RITUAL ENDS
the morning with opaque silence forms bile in the blood swallows up workers in a circle of fire undulating at Christ's bedsideTHERAPY, IN THIS DIABOLIC WORLD
Adam ate the fruit, standing in front of the woman afterwards he went to wait for the dog with legs dangling in mid-air the black dog in search of dust and sandTHERAPY, IN THIS DIABOLIC WORLD 2
Offering a fiction I watched the water full of glass sheets too many things with such toughness and in the end the circle of my love enduring with the same visage I have remained buried who knows whereTHIRD MILLENIUM
trains pass in silence being unstrung by the fog with backs against the sky they become gigantic, attach themselves to the earth like magnet and pass the horizon now silent now clamourous in search of white sails or a dusk or a violet eclipse as if to continue telling an old storySKIES WITHOUT BODIES
drag themselves backwards within depthless time a star falls to compel the face to open itself without the tree to hide the forest in the forest....THE SUN APPEARS COLD, THE FLOWERS WILTED
a mere reflection of the blinds is the same old stretch at the bottom of an acquarium at length, the sacred point had received his martyrdom a bramblebush would have received his body to mature in open air in the whiteness of neon here is the bomb like a scarf of fog on the breast of the earthTHE SUN APPEARS COLD, THE FLOWERS WILTED, BUT FOR NO REASON AT ALL
in the end the sun bleeds whiteness its eye in the realms of sand disintegrates faith not being able to see itself a mere star when it dies in memory youth begins kneeling for want of eternity whitened roots flash in the duskIN THE ROOMS OF SLEEPLESS MEN AND WOMEN
you will be shot! I repeated to him, you will be shot die tranquilly showing your breast to the platoon I say it is only the silence which will ricochet from the stone he screamed as if he were a girl offering her virginityNAKED ON THE HARD BED
the cluster rests on tawny leaves and your rosy lips forgotten on that ridge along the sky the old man too weary to protect himself from lashes realises that in his praying he was turned to stone you gather the fire in the wound, the night, among flowers of pearls becomes even more attached to the skin the sea is a maddened dick counting the vortices of your run then the eye, vivid with hate speaks to you under the clouds of heroes on their shitty frontiers so faithful and sharpWON'T IT BE A BATHTUB, BY CHANCE?
coarse and black the hour of day presses against the rain time still trapped in white stone the sun will have aged since we smiled through our lashes without noise the wind breathes over my body with coloured clouds and charcoal-coloured sleep hidden there in the dust of the desertIN REALITY, BREAD IN ALL PROBABILITY, IS BLACK
the sickle's edge is right to say that in the end it is not enough a hero - dried, stoned with drugs really comical on a pyre of matchesGO THROW THE REFUSE IN THE RUBBISH DUMP
here is the cell which explodes before the divine light licks the naked brain.....KILLING A PIG IS, ABOVE ALL, A FEAST
hidden in the wormy labyrinth dead without anyone by the bedside dead during the apocalypse searching for one thought through the ages in the jug, the avid day's burning yes, she knocks; yes, she lies down she screams, grazing the liquid "you can get out of the boney box" the body, if you wish, is a wasteland steal, steal the whales time is evil and man is a sickness