Et en plus...

All'urgenza che preme io rispondo con il tuo nome

Riconoscersi e danzarsi
spendendo il tempo che naviga in contro
All'urgenza che preme
io rispondo con il tuo nome

Sempre con il tuo nome

I found you on facebook (even though I wasn't looking)

You’re in that class with me. We go on
from there—not long. You do The Waste Land
in different voices—Come in under the shadow
of this red rock—Strom Thurmond, Aussie
bartender, Cantonese. HURRY UP PLEASE
ITS TIME. Twenty years later,
I get your news by Facebook update,
three hundred characters or less,
waiting for the Scrovegni to open
in the windy square across from
Donatello’s horse and rider,
dust flecks foaming past fetlocks
and stirrups.

Elegy, by Daisy Fried

I Found You On Facebook by Quarion

Tacere

A veces me gustaría vivir en un planeta lo suficientemente pequeño como para poder hacer ese truco que hacía el principito, sólo mover mi silla un poquito y poder seguir viendo el atardecer.

je ne se rien de l'amour

mais je suis qu'il n'aime pas hésite

(ouvre ta bouche et place mon nom dedans
laisse-le là sur la langue)




(words, both written and sung: Rupa and the April Fishes': C'est moi et Maintenant)

What blame to us if the heart live on (or a kitten in the wilderness, or, we can still love the world)

We make our meek adjustments,

Contented with such random consolations

As the wind deposits

In slithered and too ample pockets.

For we can still love the world, who find

A famished kitten on the step, and know

Recesses for it from the fury of the street,

Or warm torn elbow coverts.

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk

Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb

That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,

Facing the dull squint with what innocence

And what surprise!

And yet these fine collapses are not lies

More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;

Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.

We can evade you, and all else but the heart:

What blame to us if the heart live on.

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen

The moon in lonely alleys make

A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,

And through all sound of gaiety and quest

Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.

Hart Crane, “Chaplinesque”.

Music for mermaids (ou à la recherche du J. A. P. perdu)

                                                                                       There was nothing in our hands

                                                                                       no history      

                                                                                       no waiting, no memory

                                                                                       no fate

                                                                                       there was only one moment

                                                                                       only one moment

                                                                                       our hearts were on fire

                                                                                       and it burned in our bones.

                                                                                          -Our Hearts, Firehorse

An indeed there was no time
to wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"
There was time to turn back and ascend the stair,
Time to disturb the universe
with a hundred visions and decisions
that no revisions could reverse.
Time for you and time for me.

For either of us could be Hamlet,
and we've both had our prophet.
We did not let the moment of our greatness flicker,
we just bit off the matter with a smile,
we squeezed the universe into a ball
and rolled it towards some overwhelming question,
We each said: "I have been Lazarus, come from the dead,
I could tell you all, but I shall not tell you all."

And it was worth it, after all, it was worth while
when, settling a pillow by each other's head
we did not need to say: "That is what I mean,
indeed, that is it".

And in short, we were not afraid.

En busca del tiempo perdido XVI

Otras veces, el tiempo es como un perfume que no se puede describir, un perfume que es sólo tangible en la piel de algún otro, que se eleva sólo para convertirse en la memoria de su esencia, cada vez más tenue, cada vez más estrecha dentro del abrazo que la aferra.

En busca del tiempo perdido XV

A veces, el tiempo también encuentra la manera de regresar: da un salto gigantesco y alcanza una coordenada tan cercana que es casi la misma: escapa del no, y encarna finalmente el sí.

Whom had he loved, what had he loved, he asked himself in a tumult of emotion, until now?

He had indeed just brought his feet together about six in the evening of the seventh of January at the finish of some such quadrille or minuet when he beheld, coming from the pavilion of the Muscovite Embassy, a figure, which, whether boy's or woman's, for the loose tunic and trousers of the Russian fashion served to disguise the sex, filled him with the highest curiosity. The person, whatever the name or sex, was about middle height, very slenderly fashioned, dressed entirely in oyster-coloured velvet, trimmed with some unfamiliar greenish-coloured fur. But these details were obscured by the extraordinary seductiveness which issued from the whole person.  Images, metaphors of the most extreme and extravagant twined and twisted in his mind.    He called her a melon, a pineapple, an olive tree, an emerald, and a fox in the snow all in the space of three seconds;  he did not know whether he had heard her, tasted her, seen her, or all three together. 

Virgina Woolf's, Tilda Swinton's and Sally Potter's Orlando

A word which is not

                                                                              ...the whole room swells

                                                                              with the scent of cinnamon & desire.

                                                                              How imprecise the smell of desire.

                                                                              -Mathew Nienow, "Ode to the Belt Sander 

                                                                               & This Cocobolo Sapwood"

To forge a word
                           which is not
to make it out of someone else's breath
to open up and give it a home
                                                 inside
to keep it unspoken among blankets
where there is no room for fear of pleasure
no room for thought

If anything, it would have to be the name of a scent
                                                                                  and of its alchemy
lavender turning into something incandescent and sharp
like cinnammon
                         or crimson red

or a thousand different glasses reflecting one same flame