(A poem about the attempt to write a poem).
Under alla hjärtansdag
as well as all the other days
I’m going to tell you about an extraordinary experience.
It’s about heart, but it’s not a disease. It’s a trip, but it’s not a transplantation.
It’s not waiting and it’s now, present, past and freedom.
One doesn’t have to book, but it’s not a desperate boat crossing of bloody sea.
It’s not socialism either, there so much to fight, attention to pay to.
Normally, the rules of the world we run on, the miserable greatness and wide narrowness of the history of the words we conceal ourselves behind, would not allow such an experience to be told.
However, today some lines are emerging from my chest
as strangling rebels of an impossible cause
they long for a square where protesting, shouting and resting…
it’s called “Matteo’s pappertorg:
A space where everybody has their own bush-universe to laugh, to kiss, to smile or to be shy.
While the pen is leading me I feel I’m going to disappear kidnapped by room’s wall and transported where poets with no order in mind and no paper to cry on find some rest.
But I’m still here, and the lines will continue to strive for their space on the square of the page,
accomplishing the task of telling what is unspeakable: both of you, two diverse summers
exploding in the same geographical corner, my room.
One’s blondness, the other one’s passion as two comets burning my room’s dark skies, bodily presence of an heaven untouched by global warming and acid rains
It’s not watching over us, it’s not watching over you, you are watching over it, placed, as you are, from the top of my tongue, spicy is the taste of such an extraordinary match of hearts.
And old goddesses that we believed to be death now call us from the depth of the wood,
providential spies challenging the patience of the last layer of ice
make photos of our disappearing, they will be sold to spectators whose tongues will be one day your new party’s carpet, but this is just another story, just another chapter of the plotless novel accompanied by Rimmel.
Let’s grab my throat instead. Let’s grab it in a blink of eternity.
Let’s grab my throat to celebrate the certainty of defeat, as a port that tomorrow will exist between two wars that yesterday were safely far.
As a political revolution,
as the struggle of Feelings on this page,
the ongoing party less party in Matteo’s Pappertorg, nobody knows what everybody is doing but everybody’s heart shape has been printed on a bronze like Branting’s proud face.
Perhaps to show that Beauty is not God, Beauty does exist. And it can be still expressed, out of nothing, out of banality. All of this is enough to imagine, I told you my experience, I told you about the lovers’ love that you though it could not be told because how would you describe a walking in the forest? A Landscape where one of your mouths scratched the surface I look at it. As a sculptor I look at the public monument I contributed to create and whether beneath the surface is growing joy or pain it is not a worry of these lines today.