• Episode 3: ep. 3 - a reading from Maresciàra - la salle rouge

  • Aug 26 2021
  • Duración: 19 m
  • Podcast

Episode 3: ep. 3 - a reading from Maresciàra - la salle rouge Por arte de portada

Episode 3: ep. 3 - a reading from Maresciàra - la salle rouge

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  • 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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