The river

I wonder if you care for my tale, coz maybe we just leave with wind in our sail
and we wouldn’t regret our being in jail, but then you stop and say:
“ hey- will your foolish pride make you jump out on bail?”.
I couldn’t forget the all that I am, and try to forgive my being so bad
after another travel ended with love in your bed.
Words stink in my mind which was all I had rest,
now that I cry coz I can’t be the best.


“ My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you’re thinking. Think.” ( T.S.Eliot)


Ogni notte si prega di non sognare di sentirsi vivi, ma solo di urlare in amore e violenza colla stimolante paura dell’ignoto nel lasciare un messaggio su una busta sperando che qualcuno lo legga- come un romanzo troppo cervellotico e un sorriso che sostituisce parole sotto estranei occhi increduli in un’espressione d’orgoglio.