Silver Verse Poetry

Philosophy into verse. I try.

[silverversepoetry]

A toast to tomorrow's usual

Outside the courtyard a single hand among sea flowers and white fabrics. I don't remember what ten o'clock in the morning is like. I still hear the rustle

of bicycle wheels, alone with a different kind of loneliness, almost foreign to the eye's quick glance, ever less curious and more tedious.

The doors left open at the end of the sky don't bring back that flavor of naïve and mocking solitude, might as well shut them for today.

There's only the garden with the roses to keep me more alone and less alone. Down the road of the avenue it's already the beyond that I no longer feel like touching.

The absurd composure of the olive trees is an immense religious chant, even felled they recite praises for the good fall and for the gift

last to the usurpers. The stairs are now concluded, dear Sun. A toast to tomorrow's usual and to its usual missed hour.

[silverversepoetry]

Not yet knowing how to undress

From behind, the rain cannot tell lies. It leans and strips itself of all pretense of every being crossed along the way. Rebounding just to start again from scratch.

It is the dreadful game of chess itself with the advance preview of every move. To know the bishop will betray the king for just a knight as dowry

of the queen. If I turn the key, behind the door the scene remains the same. Those thirty coins are still lying there, with the only difference

that the players have already gone. The rain corrodes them, or perhaps it can't corrode them fully? Touching one, it rings like blood.

Outside the fog is rising, if I step outside the rain has already climbed back to the heart. I turn around and see the assignment. I must allow this will

to be done… I don't know if the rain lies, or if it's me who lets it do so. I don't know if this will is even mine. I lean against it, but I still don't know how to undress.

[silverversepoetry]

Sleep drips down

Sleep drips down upon the moonlit crest. Among the black shadows of open country what Moon can fill my sorrowful

sign of passage? The whitened headlights grow weary of wanting to let themselves go to the somber whisper of midnight.

[silverversepoetry]

The worst semblance of man

I am saturated with smiles and promises. Beneath a veil of music about love - love, the worst semblance of man, the most treacherous, the most contemptible.

More contemptible is the enchanted soul by the flowing of the azure time and by the crystal water. It bites me - the stone in my hand, it bites me - the door

placed before me, it bites me - the mask kept on without feeling its weight. I don't care if it's all for nothing, the sound of shattered pane - of the pain

shattered - it tickles, the blood vibrates with magnificent evil. Must I be cured? It doesn't matter, it's done. So is returning back entirely pointless?

I'll return only to be a nuisance, to stare at the tomb I have betrayed, to let myself be watched by the unceasing guilt of not swallowing back my rage.

The chain remains forever the same, love adds to it seventy times seven - seventy times it magnifies, seventy times seven that destroys.

[silverversepoetry]

Life sucks

I've heard it from too many, too many sources… the wasp keeps buzzing with its loaded syringe. Daily poison, daily administered dose of palliative. Care and un-care.

A single dose or would you prefer it smaller? The breath runs short on oxygen supply like before, like after, and tomorrow. The rain at least brings something like relief,

if only I didn't have to go back out. Lord God, how much resistance does this take? It'd burn me for a day out in the desert with its immense and golden-colored dust.

I have corrupted the desert with my shadow and with my footstep - how can you accept such miserable audacity? Lord God, illuminate the desert for me,

illuminate the shadow of my foot, so I may breathe inside the falling rain, in the dew of the green poison, in the wind that burns me through in just one day.

Lord God, they preach that life is meant as a gift. Inside the soul there's only room for vomit. I've seen it in those empty, shapeless stares, I've read it in a note - and it sucks.

[silverversepoetry]

Rotting in the ridiculous

There is no cadence in what I versify, it wants no music, it does not want to hold any accord. It won't even uproot from the field whatever images

rise from the heart of a muse or from the psyche. The abysses are nothing but constructions, desperate ones, to shatter the abyss into which one falls, and only into tears.

The best I see is the table laid out with pages bearing no writing, set there only to be leafed through, to test the semblance of the useful.

Light is just enough to confine the griefs of the hour that has been lived - a miracle, managing it down here. Even pleasure is nothing but an ordeal,

worse is the isolation, the stigma of the sea into which we have been cast. The earth is no place of promise - it simply knows how to sell itself better.

The place where one might find salvation is that of the demons, the unceasing struggle that preserves the deepest alliance between the soul and the body.

The wars of the outside, the matter most prized and yet most despicable for the armor of the ungrateful monsters and instigators of rebellion.

But at bottom, what lies below the bottom? To wait for everything to be reduced to a single laugh - because at bottom everything tends to rot in the ridiculous.

[silverversepoetry]

Summer Carousel

Summer Carousel in open countryside. Draining jolt.

A spinning headache of a smile. The dew moistens the circlet of grass, forever faithful, forever at peace.

The wind falls down drenched upon the skin. Draining jolt.

Among the sunflower plants the weight of the wave lulls the waking hour to sleep. Even while sleeping, tedium won't rest.

The lemonade melts away in the hands. Draining jolt.

Even if smiling is a fleeting crosswise moment that knows no island, there is no force that turns this carousel off.

[silverversepoetry]

Red death

On the wall of tears, a red death. Hands like sticks upon the altar of recycled paper. The stroke across the back, a thunderbolt to worship.

The white icons make war on each other over the crowd of plastered virgin. Peace torn from the edge of the earth, God who asks to be nailed down

once and forever on the depressed hawthorn. The page once leafed through, translated and retranslated by the cypress, holds no margin for being invoked

except by the academy of the wreck. The dry of detail point by point weighs down the breath of the edict, until it lulls to sleep the grievance.

The innocent eye of the countryside meets the cut on the leg, flesh-colored. One grimace is enough, and the ferocity becomes intellectual meat grinder.

Syncope of gazes, the hanging canvas - gazes without eyes, gazes of colors. Syncope of death without the waiting for completion, light of the painters.

[silverversepoetry]

Would the wind have ever said yes?

Too far away thinking back on the scent of sealing wax.

Would the wind have ever said yes? In the image there is no more image even giving all to see it again.

Floor of tears in the cerulean room. The light drips down.

The cup of tea is still warm. My dear, you know that one cannot break the icy arrow of memory.

Brown and azure. The window that opens onto the two ravines.

The world has never been far away - world of transparent multitude. Would the wind have ever said yes?

[silverversepoetry]

Ring-around-the-rosy

But the game repeats itself inside the dead pause. It's not that things have changed so much, so much that things have changed, the repeated pause is far from dead inward through the game.

Always evading though always aware, the water of each season passes on. Passes on each season even if the water though not aware keeps flowing past, evading.

It's not for this that the mask of the dusk plays its role. It's the race inhabited by the mask that plays, all the way to dusk, a role of pure, mere deceit.

Even if it were a race to be scorched to the minute, one must always lose - for time already lost is always a minute to be scorched, even if it were no race.

No, change the music, start over again. Resume the initial chapter now, because one always returns to the beginning though having changed the music once again.

The azure in orbit reveals a small dot as on that day of late September when one did not think that in the end it was a small dot hurled into the azure.

[silverversepoetry]

The sickness of writing

No desire to write. I write. Resumption of two unknown worlds, once, for so long a time, bound. The disjunction is a complete thing,

but it will not change, it has never changed. Magic, the current turned to stars is the only pillow left to hold. No, I have not changed. I always change

so as not to change at all. My soul has never once been equal to itself. The light weight of the meridian night weighs upon my stomach.

I must complete, this is what demands the conscience: what is once begun must end. My end, a window full of incomplete and unfinished tasks.

The sickness of writing, for as long as it inhabits me, it pulls me by the neck of thought and heart. It sets my sails with the impulse of the storm wind's gust.

When dawn comes, what calm will it bring me? The dead man's stillness. And tumbling down among its cliffs, I will have written yet another broken story.

[silverversepoetry]

In the plain drop

Under the rain eyes of yellow light fix upon the shadow.

Notes in the evening notebook. The drops dampen the pages, like the voice that cannot read.

The blue of a sign breaks the blue of the night. Festive note.

Glances of flesh, they do not seem flesh. The metallic estranges those souls into something that smells of illusion.

Colorless lights bend the flutter of a golden rum.

The heat gives body to this tedium. Cast into the plain drop, which one carries a grain of truth?

[silverversepoetry]

Apathetic passion, consumed

On the razor's edge, indifference and passion compete for the upper hand. Spiritual exercises.

Flesh-algae spreading wide within the tub. We touch each other, we discover. The eye that says no.

Between fiery brows and strands of hair smoothed down, three streams caress them. The brain, now subjugated.

This is it, to walk upon the razor of film frames and of blinding white light. Blood coagulation.

Passion - from passion into passionless - grows tired and bored of its own repetition. Copied animals.

Scribes of the body, we set out again. Tomorrow will be better - sooner or later. Apathetic breaths.

[silverversepoetry]

Because nothing absolves and nothing completes

Why Poetry? Because nothing absolves and nothing completes.

I have grown sick of geometrical poems and of propositions demonstrated. On the human there is one proposition only: it is the case

of the absurd. Philosophers keep trying: entire libraries to be filled with wastepaper. What do they demonstrate? The most complete and most perfect nothing,

God's one and only masterpiece. They earn their tongue and lose themselves alone. The hand arrives, and then the smile - they are escorted into oblivion

and they discover the tongue of silence. Who knows how many laughs and fits of whining they offer up in sacrifice for the earth, who knows how much they'd want to burn

their theses, syntheses and antitheses. Original sin the pure idea - nobody was saved, but nobody has wanted to be saved from their complexes.

It is not development, but always envelopment. It is not concreteness, it is not idea. It is touching the void of vision, it is making the demonstrated ridiculous.

Because nothing absolves and nothing completes, this is Poetry.

[silverversepoetry]

Prayer for the good illusion

Crossed over the bridge of Summer, only heat and desert will remain. The skin's voice, dampened by itself, will be the betrayal of the lips.

I will follow you, for I know nothing more to do, nor to complete. Our sketch was perfect in its four sides. Roundness brought the first doubt,

the spiral was its own vertigo. Come back, sisters Autumn and Winter, solitary cousin Spring weeps, last among cherry blossoms.

Even though the window stands open and the curtains despair to flee, I despair, remembering your scent. The smile conceals the sadness,

the sadness conceals the hope. The blue of the room grows veiled in cold fog, colder than ice tempering a heart formerly more jovial.

Now there is no more sense in seeking sense, the soul does not tire of seeking it. The prayer slips out of sobs, for the good illusion of life.

[silverversepoetry]

Usual day

Usual day, the usual newspaper to leaf through with that thin and hollow shade of one who drifts through the usual paper routine, clock-punching, rhythmic. A clipping blade

would fit right in to interrupt the coffee break - tossing any face into the green water besides - as cause-effect philosophy to stay acquitted, cleared, and kept clean

from the vicissitudes of office grind. But still, despite it all, the Universe always keeps the last good thing in mind. No one should ever feel themselves apart.

Life must be seized as though it were the last act left to own and fully live… I feel the vibrant shocks run through me here. I wouldn't know if it were better to survive

or picture to myself the fairy realm embraced by everlasting peace, awoke by flutes and clarinets. A quiet balm: at the end, if one imagines, one falls mute.

And having let myself be carried long by such sophisticated, sophistic doubt, the pen has vomited this very song of vermilion and cursing tone, no doubt.

[silverversepoetry]

Hyperuranion of flutes and sprites

Flushed moon. Tickling the leaves of the poplars.

A good-for-nothing's laughter cuts across the windows of this earth trampled by the lights of dragonflies.

The fluttering of fans covers the air with scent.

Vertigo of incense opens the doors to the manifold worlds of the forbidden. Wings of smoke that touch the Sun.

The idler tells another story to the goldfish.

The nocturne of the lake awakens them beneath the glow of a thousand ideas. Hyperuranion of flutes and sprites.