il Guardiano Della Notte

parole: nulla di utile.

 

 

 

Postato da: underwop a 13:32 | link | commenti |
poesia, poetry, bologna, blog, filosofia, acquisti, poem, metafisica, home, affetti, elettronica, fica, industrial music, god , loop, electronic music, beste umane

Postato da: underwop a 11:36 | link | commenti (1) |
filosofia, eraclito, arteborghese, arte borghese, dellorigine, filosofi greci

Postato da: underwop a 00:51 | link | commenti |
poetry, arteborghese, arte borghese, slaughter district

Postato da: underwop a 19:17 | link | commenti |

Postato da: underwop a 09:27 | link | commenti |

In places that tear-us apart. She is not screaming. She whispers, That's why she is terrible. And to hear her voice is not a gift.   I like to speak-up your name: Alien metal beat. Raging rock. Train. Shock.   Night falls, Sylvia. But did they love you, old iron hands?   It was the cold you courted, for bed a shroud and for pillow not a little turf but a towel.  It's all well S.P. I've seen   the corridor which opens-up   on frightful chambers. It never let us go. And night stares: a cyclop.

Was it the sound of the cymbals that drove you mad? Or the voice of the sea that went through you, and you chanted it empty like a sea shell.   We wanted your voice we wanted what filled it. Glued to your breasts we consumed you, like a litter; to escape afterward,     hands cupped with slimy relics.   When silence came it was just enough.   Not the voices nor the farewells, not the motionless toys. Nor Otto's moustache, not even New York.   Only the sound of the snow falling in Fitzroy st.

Postato da: underwop a 23:54 | link | commenti |

The Lady Of Chambers of Shrieks (for Sylvia Plath)   Your loves were surgical, Sylvia Plath: a cold white flash. They had to leave a mark. Scrap–book on wrists and heart. Bandages strip–tease;   A glass syringe in a shiny tin-box.   Vaults of screams, bindings. Scalpel-sharp caress.   I've caught it. The rocks of Finisterre still remember you.  The mute siren, they called you. Bad-Luck blinded by long hair: what a joke. It was the wind. It gagged you to steal your words. Your words that, in a merry-go-round, buried you.   Holding your hands, like terrible maids.

Now, something else sings them, plain voice for deaf abyss. I watch them piling-up, down there, like precious gravestones etched with meaningless epitaphs. Words too high, too big for us, Squatting at the borders of the cities, with a sealed-up heart that doesn't warm-up. These were your songs Sylvia Plath, the sirens who bewitched you ‘till the shipwreck of bones and teeth. The face a panic, behind the smile, manic. Enamoured by those billows, embraced by such spires. Drunk with the wine of hemlock and honey.   Charmed by the moon, The wicked muse of the eerie silences, the bleached gardens; of the divinations. But does it have a mouth, the moon? It looks like she's screaming, As she stares down,   terrified, grieved. (follows next page)

Postato da: underwop a 23:52 | link | commenti |

Postato da: underwop a 23:46 | link | commenti |

Postato da: underwop a 14:12 | link | commenti |

I love deadlines.

 I like the whooshing sound they make

as they fly by.

 

Douglas Adams
English humorist &

 science fiction novelist (1952 - 2001)

Postato da: underwop a 14:53 | link | commenti |