Here, the Hell

Here we are, as a part of a gear
that is pain made by pain
girls and women we were and now fear

     Winter days give us shivers
     in this wasteland which quivers
     in this ourselves made hell
     where no one can breathe well

Frozen chains bound the hearts and cold rain
like old blood wets the buds
of black plants on the ground to a drain

     Winter ways and the figures
     of this wasteland which quivers
     lead us to this foul hell
     where I hear that death knell

Life to death again: that is the flood.
Sisters moan among whispers
that strike our ears as can do a stud

     Winter boys give us shivers
     in this wasteland which quivers
     in this themselves made hell
     where they grow rude and swell

Now the life changed and it's a whipper:
red wounds filled my skin and my soul
and my tears grow so much… as a river

September, 16th 2017

Italian version



The new


From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?”

(Matthew, 27: 45-46)


The word “Copt” is indirectly derived from the Greek Αἰγύπτιος Aigýptios meaning simply “Egyptian” (from Wikipedia).
How many times I go to the Sunday mess only because I always do so? Only because I must do so?
How many times the mess is boring to me?
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians is an important and precise choice.
The same mess, in the same day, for other Christians can be pain and martyrdom.
And death.
As the first mess was.
As the mess of Christ himself was.
… and I go there without thinking.
Or, better: and I go there thinking to some most important matter!
…and I go there and the mess often annoys me.
I think that if I’ll go to the Hell, it will be so not for an excess of life, but for my omissions.
Not for my luxury, but for my accidie.
Yes: for my sloth.
Now I pray for all you, dear sisters and brothers.
Now I ask also to all you, sisters, brothers: “Forgive me, please!

Assassin bug


On my table an assassin bug
goes around, takes a look:
surely a prey it is looking for, now.
It’s so nice yet a thin little monster
that kills

Warmer winters let it come here to me
from the south, as the sin
when it enters my mind like a shiver
coming from dark and bad earths of mist

when I kill every good in myself


November, 22nd 2016


Dark and light – part one


As I am, none will ever see me.
Maybe shy, I am slutness that whispers
curses yet sighing God: yes, I’m bad.
I’m my flesh and my shivers. I’m my cry.

Sometimes I am my beast, all my beasts,
or my breast seeking cuddles the nights
and my wrinkles which hope to be smooth.
But I’m a devoted bride, I’m a wife

I’m my skin, I’m my dark shadow, sad,
even if I can be true good light.
I’m alone among crowds. I am crowd
inside corrupt fool mind. Into me.

As I am, none will ever see me.
I am tough and impervious to the others.
To avoid any abuse, I’m my mask:
no one walks nude at night in the streets

Please, now take me, breathe me and my mind
even if I can choke who sighs so
close to me. You take me, here, now, just!
I’m poor thing, nothing else, without love


September,11th 2016


Italian version

Only a breath



Photo by J.B., 2009



Four pins sew upon me some, few excuses
usual and obsolete, anyway
when my cold skin begs you for affection
while it is parched by a fierce frenzy

The love always burns down: only a breath
that the modest sweet night can preserve
such as flashes of light at the sunset.
I steal from you the love I pretend


May, 26th 2016


Italian version

Francesca da Rimini


painting by Gabriele Dell’Otto


(From Dante’s Inferno, Canto V)

Grey and pale now she’s ghost of the shadow
that she was when she lost any control
and her instinct defeated them both
in a such full of love and bad moment

Thus she entered down in the hell
just still living till she melted her
in the blood; then the death and the doom:
she is desperate sweetness. No hope

Now Francesca turns; also I turn
led around by the same and old malice.
In the snake there’s a dichotomous pulse:
mind and skin cut off out from my heart

February, 9th 2016

Italian version