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WELCOME TO VILLA ... the results

Hello!

I want to thank all the spouses who spoke at Sunday held at the Villa in Pestalozza Miasino (Lake Orta).

To those who could not come by Friday will remember the photos online.

you soon!

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divertissement

The moon, high and solemn, vibrating notes of an endless grief, the weary and ill-born drag dall'imbrunire until dawn, wait, start again. I'aria frozen without a breath of wind, I came in through the nostrils to the bone, distracting heartbreaking song from the moon. I came home drunk after an evening spent among the cultural discourses with Boris and a failed port to a small-town girl, very attractive profile. It was four o'clock in the morning, in those spaces that belong to the youth and to his memory, where all is quiet and could not feel anything on the way back, or maybe I was not only a poet, resigned to be deaf and dumb, resigned to never being able to embrace the blindness that gives the real view. I was, in short, in the twilight of my eight hundred staff. esthetician, decadent, libertine, obsolete prince of poets, I heard from those faces that speak half-heartedly in less enlightened corners. The thrill of the sweet sixteen, when I felt the poem speak to me, gently coming up to the ears, it was just a thing watered down. Even nostalgia was emptied of all its tragic force. After all those speeches about the winged word, lay flowers on the verse and guns, so the refusal of the overrun, the proud salute to the poetics of pastiche and democratization of the minds, exasperated by the poetry of early experimentation, I came home empty, with a bitter taste and a practice of hiring for a clerical job. As I climbed the stairs, steps sounded on the steps, funeral and heavy, as if that was the last time I could feel the staircase. From next day everything would change, up and down stairs, how to eat, cry, make the basket, everything would no longer produce any noise. I accepted the deafness, misunderstood words and their music would be completely different now.

the day after the drill, a professional torturer, extorted secrets screaming to the wood, while a slow, regular scanning of the drops in the sink and die revealed the tragedy of everyday no and I could still hear the sound of evocations, with low growing displeasure and a note of annoyance.

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wrap.

the verse, which ruins

on the one after

wrap.

the verse, which ruins

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lion-headed Sekhmet, goddess of war, violent storms, the Plague , and Healing, covers the desert at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Margaret Atwood

He was the kind of man

that does not hurt a fly.

Many flies, now lives are

him, no.

He was my protector.

He loved barns filled, I will fight.

My roar announcing the massacre.

Despite everything we are here, along

in the usual museum.

This is not what I see, however, stirred

the crowds of curious children

to learn the lessons of a multi-ruin

cultural sic transit

and so on.

I see the temple where I was born,

or was built, where I held the power.

I see beyond the desert

conical tombs where the burning issues, which seem

frankly, by far, hats donkey

hide my games: the dried meat

and bones, wooden boats

where the dead sail forever

aimlessly.

What did you expect from the

with animal heads?

And then, try to think about it,

those born after, the entire human,

however, were not a big deal

give me luck and wealth

destroy my enemies.

This seems to be the juice

Oh, yes: and save me from death.

In return, we offered the blood

and bread, flowers and prayers

empty and devotion.

Maybe there is something in all this

that escapes me. but if you love

disinterested, what you're looking for,

you are getting the wrong goddess.

I'm just where I have Mass, made

stone and vain hopes

that the deity, murder for pleasure,

can also treat

that inside your nightmare

the last one, a meek lion

the bandages come with the jaws

and the slight body of a woman

and lick away your fever,

and lift, gentle, your soul by the neck

and caress you into darkness and paradise.

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every second. whenever

that the time will come,

each time comes,

are always turned

and always look at you

disappear into the deep.

but the tears end

and the last melancholy

with your last smile,

I see you fade.

you see in the fading foliage.

waiting does not fear the night,

in the second when the wind

singing stones.

Then, back up,

I resume the journey.

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moaning and ranting,

ecstasy. after night,

hideout last council

knocks on the door

yet another excerpt

you. this time

not invite any silence.

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listen to my skin,

your voice gray, dull

talk to my bones

petrified.

you the cold winter

without a breath of wind.

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albuio
NOTFOUND the door to open, and I mute

nondirò nothing, still. in the last drip

piangendouna madness ready to go out, slowly.

sarailontana, I can not go.

avevoin mind to write, to write to you.

unultimo gift, a souvenir, a piece

diqualcosa that maybe we were looking together

or, perhaps, only I was looking for.

sonofiniti fragments, not a memory

nessunaconcessione last letter

stealthily I write, I write. not a word,

nessunafrase, not performance.

Leparole ended.

sìquelle that in a few hours, did shine

iltuo smile, then, my.

unsolo doubt remains. I've never loved (vel similar)?

oppureho always just loved my words?

unsolo doubt remains.

undubbio and a big recommendation:

comunquesia, go fuck off.