Broken mysticism

Give me no more. Christ & Resurrection.
Give me no more. lullaby & mainstream.
Let the page. be erased. by a beetle
Of new flesh. I always believe. Though I have never believed.
I let my mouth. Sparkle. On behalf of things.
Look around. Every sentence is a drunk. Who. Sees. Double.
Hands. They’re the ones that embraced.
The first joy of blood. They are the ones
That learned to write. Among the plantations.
The dry. That crackles. It must have inspired.
The pain that leaves us mute. The childhoods.
It must have been those. That leave appearances. & fog.
That’s enough. That’s all it takes.
To mummify. & become. I have but one name.
They say. But I know my real name. Is a crowd
of names too raw to digest. My
Best. Prophecy. Was. To. Overlook. All.
The. Antennae. Of. The. Body. &. Dress. The. Flesh. Up.
For. Whole.
            I looked down into my scrotum.
And I kissed. My impossible child on the forehead.
Before disappearing. In my father’s prayer.
In a dream. I saw. Through the windows of a burning car.
What I will be in the next life.
Alexis Betzochev. 2091. Secure knuckles.
As good as his work. & dark humour. Obvious.
I looked down. I did it again.
Like two dead ghosts in my body.
Such a shame. Even gods have little sleepless hierarchies.
According to your daily flow. You drain like a flash.
In a new calf. Kneaded overnight.
& your body is always born from a lesser one.

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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