Il decalogo dell'attendere

il decalogo dell'attendere:

se è questo che vogliamo,

sarà questo che otterremo.

primo. chiudi gli occhi prima di toccare terra e prima di affondare nel cuscino.

secondo. "è così che s'inseguono certe specie di libellule

terzo. risolvere non è mai tanto difficile come chiedere.

quarto. anche se rispondi non so se poi è vero.

quinto. sono seduto, sono in piedi, sono seduto sotto la tua finestra.

sesto. è notte è giorno, è notte è giorno.

settimo. conto macchine nere, conto rondini e sfere concentriche.

ottavo. è perché qualcosa mi riporta a te prima che riesca a disfarmi.

nono. forse non è vero che non riusciamo a capire, forse è solo vero che non vogliamo farlo.

decimo. in un gesto di danza, allungo un tempo di un quarto, do il dò.

il decalogo del silenzio.

an elevator life

taken from scratch

turned into you

–and how many of these i've heard, don't think you're any original.

anyways, you were then left alone to wonder

wonderfully

rudderless and half-sunk

you were the perfect double-sided

switchblade

as long as no one knew how to handle you

but how long until you lose the last string

that pulls your stitches together?

opening up a world of blank sheets

and impossible inks, of wasted years and crooked consonants

you hope for the latest, knowingly fearing the soon.

in a way you freed me with your

inconsistency. still, it's sad you have to live like that

and it's still sad you have grown to be a waste of your time and everyone else's.

for z.d.

you will not get hurt here. in this town.

i work here

i print here

i play here

i sleep alone

and dream with crowds

of 31 years in the making

i try to run

and away i remain

always here

there never again.

to sum it up

a lot more scars&wounds

but always in the same spots

maybe a bit more to the left

and a bit more to the north

happiness is a cool thing

i tend to find it every saturday night

to then leave it in a dark corner outside of the bar

or maybe on a sunday morning

with the birds and the hung-over, overwritten

heartbreaks.

a.m. confidentials

maybe six months ago, if i remember right

i saw you standing outside of a door smoking marlboro light

and i was so nervous that i slurred a question to your enquiring eyes

and you went on to let me in the door

that was the start of it all, that was the start of never

i never thought you could stay, or be amazed at an airport

on a runway to your final destiny

i neglected chance form or function

to dream of being to your side

maybe four months ago, if i remember right

the words were flowing from our pens

and we couldn't wait for our mailbox to light up

our voices to ring over the air of blocs away

and that was when i should've just took you in my arms

held you strong and tight. and called all demons of hope.

because i couldn't change what was too close to me

maybe two months ago, if i remember right

you had the most complete take on all my sight

it would be difficult for me to wake up

without having either you or your smell

on my mind from the night before

and that was when i was so sure

that i should've said you were all that mattered and all that was needed

but i was dumb and laid out wrong, but who the hell doesn't make mistakes

lost at sea

when we gathered all our ropes

and knots

we set sail for thirty years

trying hard to steer against the oblique wind

and looking over the coast to see what was left behind

constantly routining for change, we dreamt of hopes and nostalgia of stillness

then we came to meet

what we always knew would come,

it's to say: sea monsters with blond or reddish hair

mermaids of loneliness that sing the lonely song.

air subtle and humid. thick with salt and fish scales

and if only we'd read the book

and watched for ripples long before

we'd got to this, maybe we'd be younger now.

like those two separated twins

on a journey long, much longer than ours.

still-pictures and stenographic letters

divide us from the keel

and we forget that all along we're surrounded

by the bluest of seas

that reaches the deepest of depths

and only occasionally forms a hole to look into,

for our curious eyes to flashback in anger,

conflict,

desire,

genuine deception

or general lack of decision.

but–looking over our shoulders–have we ever sailed smoothly?

and–most importantly–have we ever thought about having a chance to?

we rocked slowly with new moons

knowingly scared of fortnights

knowingly terrified of limestone sediments

that slip your fist, like crowds of vapor sand grains

but one day of the year, we stop and rest on the masts

broken and chipped from alloftheabove,

we reach and rest on the tropic of cancer, our heads light

and our firm arms around a bottle and a memory.

–oh, no– please erase that, no memories this time.

it's July the 17th.

moonday

the city burns
in silence.

traffic lights all play in unison
an unreal silence
of a sleeping ghost
giant
the city sleeps and dreams
and breathes
it's impossible

but it's true. far far away
wooden floor squeaks
less-than-perfect radios
and blue television shadows

make up for a humming white noise
and a collective diaphragm
that lifts and rests till the first one wakes
and then it's all too loud.

it's impossible
it's perfect. and perfectly true.