Recycling the waste of the sacred

Like the breath that fattens in the glass of rum

I just want to grow beyond me
to catch the scent of an inner slaughter.

As a child, I touched an impalpable skeleton
in the school lockers.

I took my punishments for good
and I let the vegetation of the books grow without me.

If you blossom in vague expectation,
you will soon be received by those
                        who jump into our mouths two hairs away from dawn.

In the certainty of being alive, we fade as objects do
when darkness is near.

There are those who stand on the window ledge
with all those burnt pages in their hands
                        that will be reassembled later for someone else.

I recycle all this as plastic of the eternal.
I saw myself in the mirror

on a tumultuous morning:
I had the face of someone who has dreamt

between the fingers of a friend and has just been born.
Today, I have arched my face just enough

to remember well.
It was night.
and I had made gnats my pets,
                        looking for someone worth dying for.

Then it came.
Its face, an imperfect assemblage

of all the faces on earth.
Its voice, a rope stretched across the window
                                    inviting you to flee from the house

to escape the fire on the first floor.
Some names bitten through clenched teeth
have the accomplished fragrance of the best things.

Some days your fingers hold nothing back
            but are able to touch the flames.

I’m probably at least three-quarters poor,
but the last quarter is a kiss of wealth that comes from below.

Are you looking?

There is a limb or a part of our body that glows
in a particular way: an accumulated force by inertia

that goes crazy in X-rays and overflows from your profile.
It is said that two seconds before death

it is possible for us to touch our whole body.
Once, I saw – I saw a cat die

with such simplicity that its death was pure breath.
Old dude, release the fumes.            

Et cetera.

To be here is like turning black inside a fur,
browsing through the pages of the moon while your chest

is a skylight that lets nothing pass.
Just to see what it feels like,

I unwrapped myself like a gift from another time:
black plague-ridden under the black T-shirt.

I peel what I can of myself
with three fingers of my hand, although I’m feeling cold.
And they say it is the heat of subcutaneous darkness.

Look.

In the dark atrium of these deep arms,
                        we are weak enough to endure forever.

Little Adonis waking up in the most intense pain,
as if it were May in every December.            

Outside, I’ve exhaled the leaves from the windowsill
for them to crumble.

I don’t know why I have to denigrate myself
against the curious correspondences

of the world.
I carry my father’s name
like a large boat of ancestors dispersed between two blues.

If I sharpen my eye, a patrol boat with insignia
in an unknown language

now emerges from the west. It penetrates
into the calm of my name, as

a second one breaks through the end of my surname.
Flesh and letters, now I break the seal.

Morals are little more than a lifebelt.
                        A hundred ancestors carry in their pockets

the deserts in which the universe trembled with cold.
One by one, they disperse among my letters.

Alessandro Vitali was born and is resident in Macerata. He has a degree in Anthropology and Social Research from the University of Siena. Previously, he studied Modern Literature at the University of Macerata. Currently, he writes poems, dramaturgies and short stories. He has also participated in some collective painting exhibitions in Rome and Palermo. He works as a teacher in Italy.

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1 Response to Recycling the waste of the sacred

  1. thank you for granting me the publication of my comment on your site

    poetry
    success

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