The Wild Conference

You gloss over the teeth of a profuse night
with friends bottled up in wine drains like little mites blooming
            in flesh under the neon lights
when he enters plugging the quick vein on his temple – 2 centimeters
resound from his golden hair – as if

he had closed every door
            even before entering,
                        and you attend the most fantastic lecture on generational wrath
without having to worry
                        about handing a blood ticket out at the entrance of the club.

Free of charge – he mouths off.            You nod.

Not a word could save you
            from the guillotine of his teeth – he sprinkled with crack
                                    slices your mouth as if they were words he will never say.

Come home, Roberto – a tooth that omits everyday life.
The abyss of a coin. Because he is now far away
in the dry womb of 3 a.m.
                                                with ashes on his neck.

            Now he is there. A fist straight into your face to knead
all God’s mess as your breath fattens inside a Long Island.

                                    And you pretend not to notice
when you hear a voice peeling in the dark Kill yourself!
lightning crammed inside a neon walnut, plunging headlong
                                                                        into his dental capsule.

But he has already killed himself
                        even before they call the police; he
            already died with his brother
when the holiest word was smoke rising from tinfoil.

Elmore James’ videos like bones of his phone,
            while he hummed “Dust My Broom” at the top of his lungs
and his father’s Volvo went crazy at street corners.
                                    Tonight, it’s a wind that shakes your knuckles.
            A beard that stinks with blood.
A tomorrow already glimpsed in today,
            while it’s Sunday in every inch of your body.
The today in which you break down the door of the club. In which
            it is night in every breath you live for.

Today:
                        two blue eyes with wide-open pupils – 2 centimeters
resounding from his golden hair.

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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