Issue 30: Riccardo Benzina

from SCENARIO

*

It is no longer seeing.

Through the countryside that comes visiting even while I sleep, through

the olive trees that rise broken. Or the sky, after it falls

onto the mezzanine

by mistake, flauntingly

sky.

They say it’s

easy, that you can understand this pose

this stockpile of nerves and excluded

crevices are brought back here later on, combined.

It is not seeing. It looks more like

this: it looks like the momentum

of some dissipation

occasional dose in the unattended darkness

overindulging, imploding over the halves of a heart

making a mess.

*

Not the truth. That’s why I’m telling you

I’d like to rest.

Worn out is the idea.

Yes I’d like to, I’d like to

if I can because

later on the doldrums will turn into a giant strut, almost

an entire world and I will be

entirely taken, you will be

entirely taken, we will be taken.

I’d like to rest my self as well, my self

you leave in the closet every time

burning a merciless cross

on the wall of your chest. The distance

unsewn, a desperate kiss on the windows.

I never told you.

Now I let the trap speak

for me. You’ll see

that I’ve read and not replied, that you don't receive, you haven't

received anything.

*

Doors remain closed. They’re heavy

and easy to understand.

If you lean over the mountain you can see

a crimson light coming from the stones.

The end of the river the back breaking.

Places becoming gifts to these routes.

Such a long bridge joining

the sands of the bank to the other bank.

Picking up some old dreams

where they were left off.

Where you’re alone

where you ripen up to a chorus.

*

I call head a page made

of rock and coal, no longer holding. And it must be repaired: it would

only take a kiss, a breath to turn away from us all the standing

here, laid towards the sun

crossing the borders.

But nothing goes this far.

And everything’s so crazy -

everything’s silent...

Sometimes a noise wakes us up.

Some other times, it puts us to sleep.

*

Tip of the finger adhered

well to the gaze

of me as a child, who I was - I had

milk, silence and verbs

of going on. The home for homework.

The hail of facts. I had a big

love, of going on.

The more this secret is precious

the more it becomes intolerable. It is not silence

this dreadful round, school

of being abandoned. 

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