On the dictatorship of things on-line

Passwords’ world.

You flick a click.

Confirm or cancel.

Heaven or Hell.

 

Now they ask me for a new password

to get access to information about my salary,

but they don’t tell me where to get the new password

but showing a tremendous intelligence they underline

that the new password can’t be the old password.

To get to know where to get the new password

I need to fill an on-line form with several obligatory fields,

if I am not wrong one these fields require a password.

But maybe I am wrong, stormed by a password’s throng.

 

The world within a password, hardly passing a real word.

 

Words on-line

declining our decline.

WRITING THE TESTAMENT

Impeccable language the layer’s

sitting in front, helping me

with all that’s necessary

to be simple, precise, unequivocal.

Other words almost amusingly

flash in my mind while I write:

“The legal clarity of the sky”.

Sunlight is filtering

through the white curtains

and spreading on the spacious

thick oak table

and in the lawyer’s gaze,

a gorgeous woman by the way,

who is concentrated on my paper,

dictating me, translating actually

my wishes into legality.

Translating, transmuting I dare say

words into the unknown,

into the not yet,

it’s funny how we are cordially

smiling and laughing in this office,

with our looks projected

beyond the body.

And it’s funny that I feel,

while cruising through the impalpable,

that something is being accomplished,

sailing to a great full stop.

 

I have always loved my own writing,

its legibility, its sliding on the paper

effortlessly, its weightlessness

out of the body’s weight.

 

I have almost finished now:

I am writing “In faith”

and my signature.

A clear feather cast

into swarming sunlight.

LISTENING TO "TEMPEST"

Let me go unbridled with words like “apotheosis”,

let me not revise, check, hone, let me sweep all minutiae away

because you well know how we are going to end,

enjoy with me this waltz while the whole world

is sinking, sooner or later sinking, the deck tilting

like thoughts melting, smithereens of glasses glinting,

the same gurgling veins of time blinking…

laughs, tears, shoulder-patting, ghosts clapping..

toast and dance, please one more stance..

before..-c’mon raise that glass- all's well that ends well,

with the whooshing of the sea swell.

SIROCCO SUNDAY

Lashing rain and high water,

Venetian high water, on the banks the grey stones

waver and slither in their lines under the waves.

Rubber boots’ steps slosh forward,

the wind is angry, heavy and wet,

a worn out, dirty, gristle-laden blanket blowing.

I try myths, I figure out Aeolus’ s cheeks

and wallow in swarming gashes of loneliness.
 

Hell is energy, it’s a laden sky shredding eyes

and absorbing wandering memories of redness.
Wearing itself out endlessly in its own vastness.
 

A Sunday trudging on like a bloodless drake.

"Bring Up The Bodies" by Hilary Mantel

I have not always enjoyed the Man Booker Prize winning novels.
But I enjoyed Wolf Hall despite its maybe excessive length and I am enjoying now more, much more "Bring Up The Bodies".
I got to the point where Henry VIII's riding accident at a tournament is described:
absolute, breathtaking vividness of details.
But at every page the word the comes to mind is "immediacy".
Details bouncing up and out towards you in an instantaneous, unique way.
Somebody said that poetry doesn't tell or describe but it happens.
This can be valid also for this kind of fiction which is poetry too.

TUNES

What about those that have breathed

in your heart and blood, in your days’

hue, complexion, dreams and moods,

the unsubstantial pageant you have nodded to,

the “yes” they’ve always made you come down to,

have you become them or they you?

In the puzzle of your time?

Come rain or come shine?

 

And though you have grieved in the silence of the light

you have clung to them, puzzled into their right.

SEA FOAM

 

Where’s anybody?

Stupid question sorry…gone somewhere. As ever.

Taken up by their own busy humdrum.

With, yes, the marvellous always lurking in between.

Everybody is taken up by something.

I, in my sea-shell present time, am taken up

by this business of being alone.

I don’t do anything particularly big or small,

being alone, I just keep living.

I’m alone in my ocean of memories like bones,

or bright ashes, listening to great songs

that are like clouds sailing anyway

or sea foam sweeping over, jingling,

swishing over the bones.

The ashes, the memories and bodies’ flashes.

Its “anyway” washed into the marrow

of this here-and-now that sways.

 

You know well this foam,

this alluring bubble relentlessly blown.

This flowering nothing.

The insubstantial fabric you are born to cherish.

Look at the white-crested waves coming,

at how thoroughly they are absorbed in the sand.

And how they keep coming.

They don’t mind if there’s nobody

who gazes and listens.