Winter, winter

Winter, winter you are so pale
for the love of no one you deserve.
You steal the warmth from the happy days,
you freeze the love from the summer nights.

Winter, killer, befriend no soul
For your cold kiss every man devours.
Hide in dark, hollow ways,
Be the mist that whispers when death is nigh.

Winter, brother, I feel your pain
Wicked, sickest, immoral slain.
Hacked to pieces, rotten vows
Blunt revenge, the monster’s howl.

Winter, mirror, I see my past,
I look at me and smirk in ghast.
Ticking rain, our hell of frost.
Shall we repent or are we lost?

Winter, winter. Life and wane…
My frozen corpse has died again.

The Freeman

Pale neon lights sketch shades all around the carriage and the drunkard speaks words of peace and murder to himself, hitting against the door – “I’m sorry, I’m sorry”. He laughs as a train passing in the opposite direction blows in rush and disappears. A glimpse to the past and I’m back to myself with the young lady in front of me being who knows where with her mind, staring beyond the glass, beyond the glazed horizon wrapped in mist and dew, shadow in the distance.

Over and over I keep thinking and luring the past and all possible futures, we sit and banquet at the table of mind. Loneliness comes as the foot steps on the platform; peaceful friend I thank for its presence. I’m myself tonight more then ever. Feelings pray silent and I only hear murmurs. London is warm and the waves of the Isis tell stories about the hearts who whispered their aches from the banks in despair, sighing ghosts consumed by their own pain, torn by life, so silent, so shouting, so fading. And I faded. I hear my agone self, a far dirge of hunger for truth I soon acknowledged as the rain blaming with no mercy and punishing weakness by electrocuting good intentions, building the strong and banishing what remained of a kid now man who discovered growth is only achieved by winning one’s battle against themselves.

Scars are the mark of freedom and my eyes show them with pride to those brave enough not to look past.

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.


Amori fast-food

Blocca e dimentica. Siamo amanti fugaci e superficiali, quel che basta per soddisfare la carne ed immaginare lo spirito soddisfatto altrettanto. Siamo gente convinta di migliorare col tempo ma al dolore ancora non abbiamo trovato cura. E allora? Allora blocca e dimentica. Lascia andare, non combattere, non ci provare che forse è meglio scordare, che nulla è per sempre e tanti altri luoghi comuni che pensiamo ci rendano saggi. E quindi blocca, che tanto chi si rivede più. E’ più facile nel nostro meraviglioso mondo nuovo l’abbandono dei propri “cari”, dove basta non vederli ed immergersi in un’altra storia per essere felici senza patire il peso della nostra solitudine. Perchè siamo soli. Tutti.

E c’è chi questa solitudine la sente, chi la vive, la soffre e grida dentro di sé perchè si sente più solo degli altri, tutti sorridenti fratelli, figli di una comune madre perfetta. Loro no, loro non bloccano, loro non dimenticano. Loro rifiutano e si ribellano, ed è loro la rivoluzione che stravolge l’esistenza di tutti, loro in grado di soffrire ed imparare dal loro dolore a dire “no”, a tornare, stringere, abbracciare, a curarsi degli altri.

Ora però basta. Blocca e dimentica, vai oltre che forse non siete fatti per stare insieme, perchè le relazioni devono essere sempre belle e quando le cose vanno male, allora non si può fare più niente, non si torna indietro, non si aggiusta tutto insieme. Così si faceva in passato, ora no. Dai, blocca e cambia “caro”, che di “cari” il mondo è zeppo e l’importante è non vedere la sua faccia e tutto diventa più semplice, basta ascoltare le belle parole di qualcun altro, sostituire abbracci vecchi con quelli nuovi, e vedrai che il mondo sarà più bello fino alla prossima volta che qualcosa andrà storto. Poi blocca. Blocca e dimentica.

La generazione degli amori fast-food.


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.