220

Rolling

Long days,

not enough rest,

some precious sleep

perhaps should I get.

Moving forward

on the train I am

from where I belonged to

travelling backwards

on a journey to that city

where the present lies.

Rolling to and fro

on this vicious cycle,

vibes so high, so low.

Let us settle up,

let us forget recent past,

let us enjoy the ride,

let us enjoy this and now.

217

Threshold

As tresspassing the threshold

dividing me into past and present

a device rings in my pocket;

the voice that whispers tell me,

it implores me to forget about mud,

and get into the forest at once.

My only wish is letting go,

so I do my bet and exhale all sorrow.

I make my great entrance

I make it to the deeo woods,

and, allowing myself to step back

I smell the weed, thus I forget.

The past times seem to have gone,

so I utter "home sweet home"

matter-of-factly, though,

too much drama over nonsense

is up to the present my loyal escort.

199

Horizontal

On a horizontal line

lain on a grass mattress

do I keep an eye

whilst wrapped up by the stars.

Now, immobile, petrified

on this spot I endlessly sigh
yearning for understanding,
comprehending what's going on.

A battery of tests
turned out to be life -
routines, health, love
of all do I pretend to care.

On a horizontal line
lain on a grass mattress
do I seem to slowly die,
die to meet you tonight.

183

Observer

I am the peaceful observer,

the quiet passenger

in the midst, thunderstorms

of coming and going strangers.

Highly particular habits,

out of the ordinary obsessions,

youngsters like cheese and chalk.

Still eager to have a talk,

that tiny universe on wheels,

that special means of transport,

on a daily basis do I need.

162

Exfoliation

Exfoliation

as if all problems

were magically solved

by just taking

dead creatures off,

by just removing

some of my dirt,
as if by that means

the wound that hurts

were a spot to extirpate.

Yet am I incapable

of getting that done;

who am I fooling?

I still miss your touch,

your tender caress,

your thuthful smile,

your lovely green eyes

when you're not around.

Why is it even today

so hard to say goodbye?

only to find out

that it's just me in bed,

in fact, nostalgia and I.

When will it come that day,

that liberation day,

when I finally put an end,

not a dash but a final stop;

then that big box

with your name on

is finally locked out?

I hope it will happen

soon after this poem

is released as a sort of prayer

so as to prevent that film,

those repeated scenes,

that well known script

from going on and on.

128

Time

Life becomes somehow miserable;

years, they seem eternally long;

months, just utterly exhausting;

weeks, they're everything but lovable;

days, constantly pushing your spirit;

hours, rebellious girls against pleasure.

Minutes, they declare war on happiness;

seconds, they're covered with orders

and heavy duties,

and nonsensical commands,

precise events and spontaneous moments

thirsty for the ultimate desire

of telling us how to live.

Completely alienated,

totally distracted from what's real,

which is our true feeling,

which is our significant others,

which is our relationships,

the ways with people we connect.