How would you would to feel another wearing your skin?

Would you hunt him in his sleep?

Like I know they’ll hunt you,

Harsh, and dark, and painful.

Will you remember that you wear their dried fur in your pockets,

as the fang of hundreds bites your sleazy hand?

will you tell your children stories

of how you burned life like you burn an incense stick?

And when you think of

Those who can cry but cannot speak,

Do you dream of how you’ve killed before?

(just a draft, but I needed to get it out there)

A Narcissus amongst inferior mirrors.

A hermit at the spider’s breast,

sleeping in its porous web

longing for another’s thorns

overgrown, its own will fall

in an uninhabited anthill.

Stolen from its muddy womb,

locked in a glass prison,

sleeping under its translucent arcade

while sisters grow tall in the fields

like cemetery stones that sit with ghosts.

It helps the Beast enchant the Beauty

trashing, the magic eats up its own.

Death is wanted of you,

crumpled petals, ashen thorns,

Then -

a phoenix momentum.

kiss, a broken spell.

With love,

Alba.

One of my favourite scenes:

For me, it is a movie that tells so much only through the power of suggestion. In that respect, one of its strongest points is how it tackles social themes: life in a small village – where everyone knows everything – , appearances and what really happens behind the curtains, etc. If the portrayal of society is not really your thing, then Malena is a love and coming of age story that anyone can enjoy. The young Renato Amoroso experiences the awakening of his first feelings of sensuality and love alike, enchanted by the beautiful Malena. Slightly humorous, slightly grim, it’s a wonderful film worth watching even if only for the beautiful locations, good music and the stunning Monica Belluci.

It will leave you asking yourself: is beauty a blessing or a curse?

Go watch it and then tell me what you think.

I’m one of those persons who wakes up the entire house when it snows and then stares through the window at the ashen sky, for the better part of the morning, mesmerized by the uneven fall of the flakes.

So, when it started snowing this morning I fluffed myself up and went out to my rendezvous with the goddess Chione. I had been waiting for her.  Her frosty hands set white doves free and their feathers spread crouched hope everywhere. I let it fall in my gloved hands and unfolded it with a hot breath. I was being seduced in a dance of her own, sole understanding, with flakes falling in heretical spirals. I never refuse a dance.

Life is not a fairytale. But no one said you can’t make it your own fairytale, even for a day, a moment or a second. I do not believe in love. That’s a lie. I love life, I love Chione and I offer them and myself a gift:

Pictures hanging on the black walls

Hot-blooded ghost, chocked in a bottle

Oak chestnut, your color in death

Triggered my gun, wobbly, my fingers

Olive your blood, spilled on my mirror

Graceful surrender, I lowered my head

Rickety, like the snake that rattles

Another day has now gone by

Perhaps, my darling, you don’t know

How it was that I killed love

Be my autumn

In remembrance of the old romantic poetry

Be my autumn,

On Bloomfield Avenue

where roses stroll unhindered through the winter

remembering the madrigal of spring’s fresh grass,

As October blooms into November

with the yearning of a seasons’ changing,

You hold me under your umbrella

embroidered into lace and tumbled leaves.

You sing the cry of naked trees

scarves of winter breezes on their branches

in which the larks nest their memories

of how two lovers promenade

the bricks of Bloomfield Avenue.

The addict and the crazy

I’d cried for days, engulfed into that madly shame

Training my mind, for they say it should know no lust.

Light in the night, atmospheric delight, no blame,

Circumstances always design that lack of trust

That twisted affection, keeps my mind from the straight

I had to be strong; I would have succeeded. Had

It not been for white cinnamon coffee. The Bait.

Now it was his turn. He asked: Has she finally gone mad?

Yet I laughed at their nonsense, silly it was so

She may be beautiful, and to my eyes extreme

Dark inside, fair outside, her purpose is to woe

Of nymphs and imps and goblins sometimes I may dream

White sentinels need not see it, but she knows well

The addict and the crazy, here love is a hell.