Episodios

  • Episode 7: ep. 7 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - kilimanjaro

    Episode 7: ep. 7 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - kilimanjaro
    Sep 1 2021

    sea doesn’t get tired  
     
     

    finding itself sad, furious 
     and the clouds from the mountain with it
     -bunches of thunder vapor
     horses- they fly offshore
     
     this sea storm is mine
     mine are its roars,
     mine its sheets of foam
     repeating themselves like holy exchange
     of saliva
     in a moribund Greece
     
     this sea storm is ours,
     it looks like your forehead
     -sea she-wolf mist
     salt suspended-;
     or like laying on a moist bed,
     to the rest of thighs
     crossed like swords, corals
     like algae then |
     
     has brought on land
     any kind of debris,
     eating the flesh of my mind away
     leaving the flaccid part exposed
     like crab-goblet open wide;
     it smashed bottles
     softened glass, rocks, shells,
     it barked and hissed,
     it enervated carcasses,
     diluted sewers.
     
     another Autumn came /
     and yet another Autumn dies on me -
     I can only -
     report things -
     manifestations -
     performing those to my temples only
     with someone else’s voice
     
     -the feeling of being ill
     as the feeling of being healthy
     interrupts me |
     
     sea storm is itself and itself
     only,
     only fishermen should pronounce about |
     
     it leaves us this manner,
     moved
     by masterfulness of exhausting;
     by perseverance of an entity
     with no mind at all
     but alive
     more than anything.-
     
     
     Trezza 12 October 19

    ______________________________


    Viale

     
     the streets of my savage land
     always smell like
     meat and neigh,
     hot oil,
     lemon on blue fish /
     bony and barked war


    __________________________


    there were many springs / impossible / avogghifàri
     

     how much ink 
     how many 
     turquoise thoughts 
     I devoted to you
     
     how many tangles and dogs to the throat 
     how many moist gazes 
     like exact wings 
     
     and on the meantime, 
     how less 
     my hands reached,
     how less I entered inside you;
     how I like
     Venus 
     how mild
     I am.
     
     Yet, 
     I always smile 
     like I’m crying 
     or like I’m about to carve 
     a knife 
     out my pocket /
     and again, like I’d see 
     -in the idea of me smiling- 
     the most revolting abomination, the slowest- 
     a child of the craziest
     (my happy face, 
     disgusts me from forgetful whole of time)
     
     yet
     I’ll cease thinking about you 
     when flowers will start talking 
     when the sea will transform to blood, 
     when -having become a beast- from my eyes 
     I shall drink the Moon of you 
     and only with beasts and salt I shall talk 
     only ivy and sea 
     I shall understand 


    ___________________________

    thank you, sincerely 
    giovanni s. 
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    11 m
  • Episode 6: ep. 6 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - just a cock singing

    Episode 6: ep. 6 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - just a cock singing
    Aug 27 2021
    Decomposition (and how joyful and childish it is  to talk about death, or Спокойнаяночь)  yet supine because of death  or only because  of one day effort |  may a rose blossom  from the solar plexus, or a pinky mycosis;  may flesh open wide  at the paused stern height  in order to offer a pearl   or a black stone  to who’s passing  who’s handsome thief;  hands are similar to ivies, eyes to opals pools for flies-   all the apprehensions  will be drank by grass    Trezza 22 October 19  ______________________ untitled    I do need it  but I’d like to present you  a vertebrae of my finest / I’d give it to you  like the royal rings  from trunk to heirs, and because of that hole in my back  I would not fall like a boiled fruit, instead  such as asps from the ditch  some wings would bloom,something would,/  in order to repair, wipe out  all our doubts,  since I as I’m now whole and empty  can’t. _________________________ wish   May you be the dream of a sailfish, fresh fig and Dalco’s scythe edge;  may you be loved by a dog, may your soul be nettle and bread like, fire and venom like,  and your eyes like anemone and closed wings, their fundus may remember of a celestial web;  may you live far  from those who spasmodically  look for a reason in any phenomenon […]  may your back  look like a aureus field, and your temples and thought  like brambles packed with fruits, obscure spiders;  may yesterday  be less than exuvia,  saliva dead leaf, used olive branch diadem;  may your nervous teeth  meet many sage leaves, and may your blood transform at any moon blade, your heart horse fiber and mantis;  may your sky be godless,  may your soil be a trench with holy worms, a rug of moss and sharp ferns;  may your sea go mentally white, meditate green-blue, may that blue vomit  silvery fish  and tentacles curling for lemon drops;  may you be like star and Siringe, Agdistis,  intersexual Hellenic concepts, may you love when rain plays branches;  may be damned time and its infernal wheel its swarming repetition of tortures and liberations revolutions and twists repeated to whip and nausea to grindstone and hustle of dumbs and war.   may your right to be loved  meet negligible abysses,  unfold  like fresh flour on clear wood  or the clouds sliding  off the mountain side.   ____________________________ days   pleasure and verse are triggered by  knife beating on the chop board. Between them  there’s a thin line of horse meat.   Split the nerve  Cut the suet in excess   It might be diving foreheads  in a rubber wall   intestine canvas like  quotidian membrane  to make us wish  to tear apart things nearly ended ; to creep on roots and moss  naked, slaughter; to pour cheeks with ventricles juice.   It’s a splendid night to be scared, it’s a splendid night to be melancholic,-  moon  hammers  splits the nerve if full, cuts it in a glare  if new  May the sky desire this lives  meet many scythes.  Life pusillanimity walzer, we’d better roll ourselves in a dark wave, wear miserable aestheticism,  and your kidneys, you enthusiast man,  will be licked by hounds.   II.  after brushing the crack, pieces were connected  with spit, with seaweeds and mucus ;  drive with me tonight,  place on my back  ropes and lavenders  as a living mummification rilling ,  and inside, nothing’s moving-    Catania, 24 December 19  _____________________________   i giorni     Il godimento e il verso li innesca  il coltello che batte sul tagliere.Tra i due c’è una linea di carne equina.   Spacca il nervo  Taglia il grasso in eccesso   Sarà il tuffare la fronte  in una quotidiana membrana  che sembra un muro di gomma  o una tela di budello a farci desiderare  di dilaniare cose appena finite ; di strisciare tra radici e muschi  nudi, macello;  di grondare le guance di succo di ventricoli.   E’ una sera splendida per aver paura, è una splendida sera  per aver malinconia di se stessi,- la luna  spacca il nervo se piena  come martello,  lo taglia in un baleno  se nuova   Voglia il cielo che queste vite  incontrino molte falci.   Vita walzer di vigliaccheria, faremmo bene a rotolarci in un’onda nera, a vestirci di mesto estetismo, e le tue reni, uomo entusiasta,  le leccheranno i cani.    II.  Sfiorato lo schianto,  i pezzi erano collegati  con lo sputo, con le alghe e col muco ;  guida con me stanotte,  poni sulla mia schiena  cime e lavande  come una mummificazione  in piena vita che scorre,  e dentro non si muove niente-   Catania, 24 Dicembre 19 
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    17 m
  • Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell

    Episode 5: ep. 5 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - androcell
    Aug 27 2021
    joint / to you, sleeping    your pain is hard. you always look like  crossed by a thousand thoughts a thousand blades/  a thousand sailing ship dreams ,  blood accidents, clay;  I like your dog eyes/ your pain is mine to guard, to admire,  It is mine to heal, since it comes me natural as sharing a wept it comes / and I come  to you / you come to me   I want to make you spirit and flesh  sex and water  thigh  free to be shown or not to be scratched or not;  kiss you on the forehead and where  your legs join in cave incision  sea like or not  inlet, everywhere; looking at your back one night and nothing else,  sleep inside you  being slept, dreamt, bit;  my chest and what it contains  that’s yours,   an only with you it moist with blood in the best way/ laying/  yours are my nervous feet  yours is my phallus  yours are my spasms  yours is my neck  you are almond woman  and no one fits like you exactly coincide.___________________lawyer M. boat    it doesn’t sail on salt water anymore gathering rain instead;  fixed on wooden turrets night blue keel, water-green higher and wooden  Someone brought it here to Mauro’s shipyard were was born, sons or devastated friends, after you died, and such as the memory of you it rests under just olive trees unjust heat -you would have said it better-  Put me back on the sea, -seems saying- its graceful planks seem to whisper, take those clamps away from me I am pretty, willing to cut waves be barge and refuge for naps of bathers, fisherman’s desire/ I’m not able to dream here I’m not fond of hills or birds singing but I am of sea stacks dawn beginning marine sun marine warmth___________________________dusk    I like your nape  looks like a tiny bridge  a wooden bridge leading to the lands of your mind, you mind’s caves, things on fire-  this beating I hear from stern, through stern, in stern/ does this beating belong to the one I care about most (creature)?  she speaks to me being me plus Cancer sign/ and she’s all the complex metaphors and desire and black and gate and risk  she’s a leaf to rain on,  she consoles me ________________________August 3     in this hot weather death I walk,  slowly  like skin in water.   it is enough  to be next to a fan of yours, then isn’t enough/  cause my mind detaches  from skull and its axis  like a crown from the pedestal,  like garlic from dirt/  with a glass per day  of fecund red oblivion , -no blade sight passes  through this blood-  a hundred years to live  carcass of thinking  roars  about what you were  smoke in squall /   here: eat  earth and sea things that tasted the same  for a thousand years ;  things that breathe, eat on their own,  suck, sip, absorb, chew, digest  other things with wings, fins, leaves,  roots, nails, jaws, mineral and dirt molecules/  happiness is in basil.  in this hot weather  suggesting death  more than freeze does as skin in water  still   happiness is in basil leaves  in your hands on my ears  in fishermen shouting ____________________onirical (a dream)  as I reached  the crater’s mouth   I came to my ogival wound   completely awake I came  to my sleep, to my vigil  in total seclusion of thought    mind wasn’t aching  but had consistence  of exhausted leaves in plastic or jute   -temples like mad magnets-   on the throat trampoline  still  a black molasses black wept  mustard silence  of things repelled, imprisoned -boiling wort unconscious-   I came to anxiety that had form of a clearing  with suspended bodies all over  -also suspended was the bodies sight-  and the clearing was a laying down temple meanwhile  a stern itching, and the eternal fallen down ourselves in infinite copies of ourselves,  always identical  then always different,  never better,  deceived in a modest and immature  renovation circus ending  in shedding skin  /the ghoulish act/   With phantasmagorical radiant ravishing  new coloring  we do throw ourselves in hope of a different brain  and at any dusk  we’re swindled.    II.   You poet, wearing amulets you rummage  in discernment itself,  looking for a reason for reincarnation, a rule or evidence; arousing and caring about anything; your eyebrows look like dolphins.   It’s poet fashion and only  poet fashion  seeking for a system untangling impossible, -must it be sublime system-   My green poet is never tired, he’s a child wearing in ash armor  and I love him.   The woman with him  doesn’t know mournfulness, and the stars on her eyelids  don’t burn her at all, and she leaves galloping  with arch and arrows  pointing heavens.    III. As I came to the womb of earth  I hit her with my member,  she rejected it firstly,  then embraced it, and as...
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    25 m
  • Episode 4: ep. 4 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - C, the letter

    Episode 4: ep. 4 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - C, the letter
    Aug 26 2021

    c. 
     
     


     forehead to forehead 
     laying down 
     in a circuit of bonded flesh 
     not thinking about us, 
     to something else,
     someone else’s breasts,
     someone else’s genitals
     
     eyes turn to anemone 
     in a macabre wind 
     -no other way- 
     locked in a room like a rose 
     in a glass bell/
     your veins are
     wisteria glass  
     green-blue 

    rivers to press 
     occasionally 
     
     temple to forehead, forehead to temple 
     I detach from myself,
     not moving any muscle, 
     and you pick me up 
     from eyes and phallus 
     like it comes you natural 
     stopping the sandy liquid myself 
     between fingers 
     
     while inside you 
     a microscopic version of myself
     is sleeping
     on your eyes fundus,
     under the changing shadow 
     of your astonished iris 
     -expanding and contracting- 
     
     picking me up if I fall from me,
     pulling me down if I take off 



    ____________________________



    your wept
     
     


     like a stupid animal 
     I’ll sleep tonight 
     in your blood 
     on your blood 

    I’ll sleep
     -I’m more similar than you-
     
     like a silly animal 
     I’ll think about you tonight,
     looking like a thin hound 
     curling up 
     under fresh stars -June or not ones- 
     
     I’ll think about your compelled lips 
     about your dark almond eyes,
     about your skin 
     that is an entire land 
     -I am less moral than you- 
     
     only have your blood tonight,
     drying out too soon,
     and in that concept I’d drown
     on those dark stains on white canvas 
     -the night of the wept, the night it was- 
     I’ll sleep
     since summer coming 
     wears out

    __________________

    thank you, sincerely
    giovanni s. 
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    5 m
  • Episode 3: ep. 3 - a reading from Maresciàra - la salle rouge

    Episode 3: ep. 3 - a reading from Maresciàra - la salle rouge
    Aug 26 2021
    eucalyptus camaldulensis     trunk and branches unclothe, bark sheets  do roll seeming   flutes from super-green nymphs or severe scrolls; these fall slowly with rain inside, scars inside, cliff’s odors and landscapes, cliff’s  fires /  leaving place  to a fully new  preserved body  pearl colored, marine childhood colored.   _________________________6 ( sardines and Cassiopea, or a series before a good short poem) cells water cells  liquid crystal cells  screen cells if only time wasn’t a pale tool  if I only wasn’t 22 cuspid scorpion in scorpion  sun  Venus in scorpion rising sign in monarchy  childhood in bourgeoisie sky in anarchy  it could be possible to go out and keep  experiencing drugs  -synthetic or not, sharp or not-/ -I’m immobile lava still-  let’s enjoy then  citrus and fish to eat, let’s enjoy Autumn then, let’s enjoy sacred figs, then treasure chest chestnut fruits, sea salt in the air and fire / I do have less  bile  and it’s quite useless for the verse to wear laurel or olive crowns it’s useless for the verse to spy  Artemis nymphs  hidden in a trunk, Nature considers us poorly.  With short trousers I used to say: “The most appropriate similarity  for earth and its humans  is a piece of cheese on which mould starts to grow, in the silence of a fridge, in the cold light, surely  bachelor’s fridge  spinster’s fridge, maybe  at night”. Then there is the verse rhythm -punctuation is a bustier- and there’s the saliva I’d like to drink the blood I would sleep in, sperm or humor, needless to say,  their warmth is nice- (the gesture of Colombo’s hands to Damiel,  even if Cassiel’s the realest) I wouldn’t stop anyway, being moss or Orwell gear even, even if I could not imagine  that emptiness would have taken the place of delirium- No one should be one only, anyone should be wind/. Since Giovanni the Poet,  Trezza’s boatman, will die I will write about when he attacked Liuni  with an axe, that story will be free from respect and modesty/ the fact that magnificent Verga Verga was been  doesn’t mean no one can write about trezzoti.  It should be remembered that Sicilians  are quite far from abandon themselves  to southerner emotionality and effusions -I mean, we are not Napolitans-  (with the immense De Curtis respect to them reserved)  We, crazy men and women from Trinacria,  do wear death on us and inside us  the way lemon flowers are sieged by aphids, like green-blue garfish and its fishbone/. Anything is a prickly pear, that must be swallowed without chewing  -teeth cannot win against seeds so bitterly is swallowed  sweet mouthful of stones and sugar- and it grows without being planted, is enough to throw it on the hard soil or on hard soil shall it fall/ this chaos has inside  the rules of the whole galaxy. But cells were being discussed  -this world gets us used to skip  from simple boat builders to software, from sardines to Cassiopea trajectories. Keeping up with times is needed, reaching the meteor of progress  until it’s so fast to invert its tendency  and die in itself.  You should see me now, you should want to see me now.  I shall. Nothing. I shall do nothing.  I have a new pair of British shoes that smell of feudalism an fox hunting  and a new skin, a thinner one; sleeping earlier at night, always having mad sea on the forehead, but before that  boredom and cave,  and snake is still  the best creature:  II.  slow fingers in warm flower, we are amphibians, bites, sighthounds and nights fearing dawn; those copper-surge hair, my only sight, that white ass, my face dwelling  _______________________storm faced North    are your scapula and nervous ribs  abode for my palms  the same monsoon  wet us, cut us   to those rains  those winds  -may they come back- I would ask  how have you been ________________Etna, October 2    wild dogs cut the curves  they do know paths between dead rocks  and I come back to you,  the firsts of October, I was born next to you, next to your eternal vibration  of darkness and magma  -fox sneer and black-cerulean grasshopper  hum-, have you inside me.   those else gorses  something else’s daughters,   appeared between nothing and sharp stones;  that hump in the high winds, rusty colored, fox pattern and mighty fire,  standing out in light  light blue sky ,  those scented chestnut trees  to whom I come tired, who’s sight is always guidance;  that naked still sciara that looks like our inner  I adore. ____________________still dreaming  (onirica)   series of bloody dreams  waking up like a shattered arthropod ;  mind is plankton, lion herd facing hyenas,  scum and corrupted sorcerer   still  I do adore  the vegetation oasis on the slopes/ those eternal lichens on late fire,...
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    19 m
  • Episode 2: ep. 2 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - memories of green

    Episode 2: ep. 2 - a poetry reading from Maresciàra - memories of green
    Aug 26 2021

    observations on the used shell (shed, exuvia)
     
     
    shall I 
    wrap myself in a sharp waves sheet
    and sea gods, creatures, nereids and slow fish 
    demand for a new brain,
    new cardiac fibers,
    brand new blood canals and coral 
    wings;
     
    shall I 
    throw myself 
    carcass fashion 
    in humus 

    and between laughs of trees, nymphs
     sneers,
     new born moon nails and eyelashes,
     foxes jaws,
     in order to dedicate my flesh,
     my eyeballs and my panic ribs 
     to that whole world that browses,
     bites,
     digests,
     and turns rotten-boredom 
     scoundrel-limbs 
     into feast, 

    mushrooms, 
     pretty grass.
     
     shall I 
     blend with you 
     as you were the only useful drug 
     my dim light on drowsy Mediterranean 
     
     /
     
     I shall 
     surrender 
     and surrender myself,
     attack, assault,
     siege any uncertainty of me,
     with spontaneous blades,
     indigo
     armies 

    of snow and silence,
     divisions of sea salt and claws 
     archers and purple-orange landscapes,
     and in forgettable jails 
     throw what’s my 
     horrific remain,
     faulty valve,
     fear and boredom /
     
     yet 
     not one day passes, night or second,
     in which my thought and blood rhythm 
     aren’t far too similar to tide 
     to the eyeballs of a mad horse 
     stuck in a summer storm 
      
         skin is soft 

    still


    _________________


    multipolar


    keeps smoking
    in front of the sea

    thoughts
    such as unstable tides,
    abrupt paths
    with no roes or ferns

    one time
    slow algae,
    right after
    joyful lapillus


    __________________


    dreamlike II 
     

     I was some fish
     sword and womb,
     and the next instant
     between black forests
     fox with Apollo’s posture
     
     thinking about you
     so secret to me,
     unfolded
     in seagull geometry,
     marine wing
     
     and I miss you 
     like gorses miss May
     like crests miss wind
     
     
     II.
     
     far from ecstasy,
     from Dionysian dribble - ,
     spending days and nights
     scorpion calm scorpion still
     or such as in the wave
     seaweed dances. 


    ______________________


    hybrid
     
     
     such as mute sphynxes, or asps 
     we do wake up, twist and pull back
     daily 
     
     -moon eyelash 
     mulberry viscera
     coral nerves- 
     
     at the end 
     as river beds do only 

    remain
     the sea,
     the spiky ink
     the dream of you of you naked
     of your clavicle/
     last iris
     -they stop my blood-
     
     -shells, carcasses, fishbones,
     defective kidneys, a smooth liver-
     
     not finding any vitality
     than the one that comes
     from sensing dead already.


    _____________________


    masoch (04:47) 
     
     
    do not provoke me 
    I’d do nothing at all.
     
     
    II.
     
    I try to sleep 
    like and intact nut /
     
    at silence still night 
    I hatch, paralyzed,
    since I saw you in apocalypse, 
    in a meat slaughter, naked from behind 
    or sat on an iris; 
    in a goldmine,
    with someone else irrelevant,
    or with a blood coral 

    on the hip.
     
     without any layer of thinking  
     I ask myself if your shivers 
     do feel me awake,
     tense like one wolf only;
     if your nervous eyelids 
     cover grey of green-blue/
     
     I agreed with the wind 
     quite a long time ago:
     your hair 
     will always tend  
     to the space between my fingers 

    __________
    sincerely, thank you 
    giovanni s. 
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    15 m
  • Episode 1: soglia: a boring introduction to a poetry podcast

    Episode 1: soglia: a boring introduction to a poetry podcast
    Aug 26 2021

    goodmorning, goodevening, goodnight 

    here is an introduction to my poetry podcast. I'm completely new to this kind of experience, this kind of experiment, and as I say during the record, I do apologize for mistakes and lack of diction, also, for some bits during which the recording quality is not really top level. I promise I will get a pop filter. 

    some more episodes will follow, poems and bits of poems taken from a book I published on amazon a couple of years ago. It is called Maresciàra, by Giovanni S. Orecchio. 
    If you'd like to purchase, please click here, if not, is the same 

    https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084DH5F7Q
    hope you'll enjoy listening and let me thank you so much for you patience

    wish you all the best,

    giovanni s. 
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    11 m