Moving home - Traslocando...

No more posts here for the moment. New photos published at :

Per ora questo blog si ferma qui. Nuove foto pubblicate giornalmente nel mio nuovo fotoblog:




(Ham and Cheese)

The lane is quite deserted,
bar the laundry van now semi-awake,
rear mouth open, facing the gate
ready for its daily dirt collection.

Only the leftovers of your bed-
the soggy cardboard in various cuts and shapes
- are lying on the footpath of the lane,
scattered, maybe unused?
The rain got them soaked wet.

And what’s that plastic wrap?
That H+C marked humid package?
I stand and question its
full, untouched, rejected sight.
I wonder, were it left behind
or lost?


Beware: bad and offensive language in action.

Ok, as promised here is my poem that's been shortlisted for the Some Blind Alleys Poem Contest . It's not what I usually write about, but it came out quite naturally, so maybe I should swear in my poems more often!
Anyways, here it comes....

Lament of a doler.

I can’t listen to the radio anymore.
I turn it on on a dreary wet Sunday morning
well after 1 o’clock
and for hours I ought to imagine
kiddy fiddlers at holy communions,
dribbly masks of vice and prejudice
intoxicating my measly porridge breakfast.
As if the hangover wasn’t enough.

Then on a lazy Monday
with the perk of a dole lie-in,
still in bed while outside is pouring,
I roll over and switch it on
and I nearly gag at the voice of Pat.
What an opinionated cunt.
If he keeps denying climate change
and his snobby fat pay check
I will have to take this piece of tech
and fuck it out the window.

I cannot listen to the radio anymore.
I hate the sports’ time, I hate the traffic time
I hate the time I waste listening to these puppets
and the average callers on the Joe Duffy’s circus.
It sucks to be unemployed,
not much for the money
nor for the lack of social life,
but because all that’s left to do
is listen to these neuron-deficient messengers of dull.

I wish I was a psychopath, it’d be more fun.


Omaggio ad Alda...ci mancheranno le tue parole.

Alle nove, quando compare il tuo spettro,
tu mi vieni davanti e tanto t'amo
che penso sia una morte delicata,
venuta a sorprendermi altre volte.
Tu sei la vera donna,
un'ape che raggiunge le mie vene,
e tutta mi sgomenti e mi deridi
con la tua faccia colma di respiro...
Io affondo nel tuo livido segreto
per raggiungere la pace delle tempie.

[Alda Merini 1931-2009, da "Ballate non pagate", Einaudi]


Navigando nelle parole. Vol.30

Pubblicazione della poesia "L'Artificio" su questa antologia di poesia contemporanea emergente, pubblicazioni Il Filo.


La poesia la trovate anche sul blog, se scorrete a post piú vecchi....


This is a poetry and photography space.