Yellow straw

Photo by JB, 2018

 

Yellow straw tells me old story
about seasons and work, about fruits
Now it dries at the sun, useless, dead
tired gold poured down on the fields
 

You cut straws for me once, in my prime,
inside mature wheat stem, in the summer,
you told me about butterflies, bees
leading so my young life to its bloom
 

Now I am in the evening of days,
as sail broken by slaps of bad wind.
I know that you are alive and you are better
yet I wish here your strength, your strong hand

July, 4th 2018

 

Italian version

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I need silence

JB, 2013

 

Now
I need silence
and cold.

I need time
to sink watches
I need time
to stop time
I seek thoughts
to kill thoughts.
 

I find
only empty bad thoughts
I find evil
the evil I am.
 

I was selfish and cruel
I need silence and cold
to freeze fantasies
So the emotions
can turn themselves to ice.
 

I need glasses
to see better me
I need ice glasses to
freeze my heart
to survive
Bye for now
bye dear friend

 

January, 30th 2018

Broken bridge

JB 2017

 

Broken bridge
as a life without sense
way not useful to go further, there,
ghost of roads on which nobody walks

Broken bridge
it’s a badly made building,
yet a symbol of selfish to be

Broken bridge
so each the other cannot ever meet.
Modern torture is cutting connections

We are alone in this poor darkness’ life

 

October, 29th 2017

Italian version

The wrong way

The wrong way, by Kristine Blackadder

 

When last week Kristine showed me her last machinima, with herself as protagonist, the first impact was a strong emotion, anyway, and saw in it powerfully expressed the wish to be,  the desire to be free.

She had and showed both an almost dreamlike version and an ordinary (“real”) one; in the last she wears her usual black dresses; the two Kristine mix each the other and perhaps the dreamlike and totally free one at a certain point seems to get the upper hand over the reality, but anyone, if alone, is able to jump with a force enough to reach a really high altitude and so we fall down again into our sad and usual custom.

Above all, no dream, no matter if it’s a magnificent one, helps us to walk the road toward our happiness.

 

Kristine, that’s what I understand seeing your movie… please! Forgive me if I am wrong and see only my own reflections.

Italian version

The photography

 

From those papers your face
and no lost souvenirs of a time
when a sense held up everything
and you were both a shelter and aid
 

Where are you looking at?
Is your day near or far?
Your eyes are focusing beyond us
staring at the last threshold of your
world that you, that’s for sure, there you saw
 

Years have passed but the absence does not.
You come back in the nights, in my dreams
and we talk and it’s usual.
Then I wake up, I see me, I miss you
 

 

March, 21st 2017

Italian version

She & me. Part two: me

img_5819_web

photo by me, 2015

2. Me

I have no leaves on my branches. My skin
becomes dry with the wind of the winter
that strips it both of love and belief
of each good verifying caresses
 

I’m a shiver. I ask for the Moon,
soft light twisting to my dry cold body
when I lie without words in the shadows
of all my gloomy thoughts built by absence
 

I lost feelings of sweetness and love
in the mist, which shades off farther here
any mountains and beauty semblances.
I’m a poor land, earth of little substance
 

I am the servant of demented cravings
to which I bend down, looking for toys
in my nothing. A diaphanous whisper
coats my flesh almost lifeless
 

 November, 28th 2016

Italian version

She & me. Part one

img_5819_web

photo by me, 2015

  1. She

 I have no leaves on my branches. My skin
realizes shiny drops of the rain
and they flow, as tears lost,
breaths of frozen white steam
 

I’m a shiver. I ask for the Moon
as my peace. I’m so tired. I crouch down
on the earth: I’m rejection of blue.
You hurt me with your coarse awful gaze
 

I lost feelings of sweetness and love
in the mist, which shades off farther here
any mountains and beauty semblances.
I’m as goods that have little substance
 

I am the servant of demented cravings
to which I bend down, like poor toy.
I am nothing. A diaphanous whisper
coats my flesh almost lifeless

November, 28th 2016

 

Italian version