The perfect picture

I was there on the top of the tallest building of the City, comfortably sitting with the glass in my hand. Lights were suffused and the chill music in the background was cuddles for the ears while my tequila kept kissing my tongue and poisoning thoughts. Everything was warm and muffled as she kept looking out of the window, me bewitched by her amazed beauty, both smiling, thinking and quietly enjoying what was left of the cold night out. Worm-like trains kept stopping and leaving the station with such small people wandering around in shapeless swarms. Tower Bridge was silent now, the traffic lights kept flashing with no one witnessing their dance and only a few cars dared crossing the Thames. We spoke a few words while the waiters spasmodically walked the room and I noticed the perfect picture. I went blank for a second, everything got dark but my closest bubble of room, the eyes looking at everything and nothing, jumping from landmark to landmark, feminine fingers gently brushing against the lips and elven ears popping out of red hair, that naturally blending with the surroundings. For an instant and that alone, I truly thought about sneaking the hand to my phone and steal a photograph but soon the need faded as I knew in my chills the best pictures are those never taken – the unique scent of a mortal moment whose destiny is to drown in the past to later revive on lone, regretful nights in the years to come.



They told me I’m special.

I’m a deviant mind. I think about problems in a different,  parabolic way. I solve them using weird or unthinkable means, I hack through them, break them down, torture them, nurture the mantra of process mangled with art. Impurity is a sin and I am the priest of its church for I speak the words of knowledge, discovery and color together. On the other side deviant minds are hunted, darker, loner, unforgiven and misunderstood.

Sometimes the world is not enough, sometimes deviant minds need to have more. And that’s when I feel the compulsive need to write. Am I home? At work? On the train? Walking? Sleeping? It doesn’t matter. I quit everything because nothing makes sense anymore – in that moment I’m not myself any longer and at the same time I am more than ever. Extracting the pen, I draw the lines of figures to enhance my universe, spill words on paper to animate the new entities of my dreams, take a snapshot of reality and feelings and explode them into a new unseen world for me to eternally remember it.

Sometimes I lose my path, almost lose my mind, blue becomes black, red becomes black,  all the colors are black and the dreadful burrow of consciousness brings me down, deep inside. When the night comes and the lights fade out, when the sun sets and the skies come to life I look beneath the flesh and crave for my daemons to devour my soul, rip my heart and release me.

“Who are you?”, “What’s your story?”, “Talk to me about the small things of your life”. Beautiful words embrace the journey and I hear them behind a door, raping the world so blind and all comes to mind: the errors, the pain, the tears, the anger, I’m alone in this crowdy mind and thoughts speak so loud I can’t hear their words anymore and it’s all so gray and disturbing and foggy and powerful and sinful and daunting and chaotic and stop!

Silence. My intimate command puts the voices in line like troops on a march. Cold morning comes and all scatter; the battlefield is left behind with only one faceless fallen to remember war is not over. And that’s me in deviance.

I resurrect from that moment and resume life as it was before.
Nobody has noticed, nobody will know – I’m special.


The moment they told me my life was shit I realised how awesome it had become. After a few months I was completely changed. For many years I had no stories to tell and nothing to talk about. But at that point, for the first time I could speak for hours about the marvels I had seen or the beauty of fear and anger and hope and all those things they had never truly experienced. I had made my dreams come true and fought the terror of my nightmares and while they were mumbling words about self-growth I knew in my heart that mediocrity could never grow anything but lost occasions and loneliness and resentment. And for me it was just the beginning, the tip of the iceberg, the point where I stopped the narrator and started telling the story myself. I had become a warrior and they would not be there to share the pride of being victorious.

Gelida Londra

Londra è gelida stanotte. Mi aggiro per le strade illuminate e silenziose, vuote ed avvolte nella nebbia di Dicembre. Non c’è cura per la mia malattia e come fossi appestato, passeggio nei vicoli bui, evitando la gente. Lasciatemi solo, sotto la fredda luce dei lampioni a rimuginare sui rimpianti del passato. Lasciatemi solo perchè quelli come me ululano alla Luna con l’anima vuota e l’oscurità nel cuore.

Scorgo un uomo solo e mi insospettisco. Metto la mano nel cappotto, chiudo gli occhi un istante. Si sollevano le palpebre e lo vedo affondare nelle ginocchia verso le pietre del viale. Resta in ginocchio qualche istante mentre guarda al cielo, esanime, con la lama di un coltello ficcata fra le costole. Tace e posso vedere la sua vita scorrergli davanti per un ultimo addio.


Strofino la lama nella carne per estrarla e lui si accascia a fissare il selciato. Proseguo per la mia strada e la nebbia mi avvolge. Un urlo, le sirene in lontananza ma io sono già passato.



It falls on my nose – beautifully colored leaf I carelessly shove away among the glares of plants and crunching sound of nature’s death underneath the shoes. A glimpse of your hands, a flash of your smile, the sound of the train leaving, the Sun through my eyes and amber scatters like tears of this harmony lost through old pages as the inexorable breathing of time, yellowing days of youth, ages memories and burns vows.

The ancient villa, the old lady with her stories about the war, the man who took the pupil’s hand through his childhood, the sad eyes of a mother with faith no more. Everything’s washed away, fallow garden of lavish past turning to ivy and filthy rust. Yester’s sunny breakfasts soaked in life; now empty cast-iron chairs to remember my wrinkles I’ve grown alone. I stare.

I walk past their tombs and the graves sprout eyes. Make a step and mud devoures my burdens… A bit more… Just some more. A lost melody enslaves my senses and I’ve turned to stone. Voiceless reflection against a thousand mirrors, my relentless flame dances around the frozen scene, gazing puppet devoid of any will and emotion. I walk through the green forest. A lone wolf in this Swedish night.

Londra, 23 febbraio 2018

Ho corso tutta Londra col cuore in mano per sentirmi insultare, sminuire, rimproverare, trascinandomi dietro le catene della speranza, pesi marci che ostentavo sorridendo ed immaginando lieti fini indegni della realtà.

Ho corso tutta Londra col cuore in mano per sentirmi rispondere con sufficienza, un mugugno, una mezza frase, immeritevole finanche di una risposta completa, portando sulle spalle i macigni delle scelte sbagliate di entrambi ed esibendoli solo a chi l’anima può vedere, solche cicatrici scolpite nel granito da lacrime di metallo.

Io ho corso per tutta Londra col cuore in mano, verso di te, ancora una volta, combattendo i bastioni delle porte della metropolitana, le migliaia di individui che ignari si frapponevano fra noi – una spinta, un salto, “mi scusi, sono di fretta, è importante”.

Ho corso verso di te un’ultima volta ma tu eri già andata via.

Figlia di una rosa nera

Pallide, le luci dei lampioni costeggiano il mio vagare. Dolce insorgere di fulminee emozioni, morte, cadaveri di ricordi che cercano spasmodica la resurrezione, avvolti dalla gelida brina notturna, sublimante stasi alcolica, flatulente ghiacciaio di promesse vitree e crepe – fondi di bottiglia accantonati nel cuore. Il gatto nero mi guarda dalla finestra, gira la testa ed affogo nei suoi occhi, acido mare d’imperdonabili pentimenti.

Sudano lacrime i miei occhi persi, diamanti liquidi venduti per due spicci al banco dei pegni per sperperare su una droga effimera, succo del dente di serpe, cancrena malata si espande e tutto muore.

Un altro minuto è passato. Il cadenzato ticchettio dell’orologio rimbomba nella testa e mi fa impazzire. “Per sempre” è la cosa più breve che si possa sentire.