Inverse Diversities

Inverse Diversities

Inverse Diversities

#DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities are a collection of poetry in divenire or as someone says instances in the continuum of oneself life.

2019 #DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities
of loVE and recognition

It is when the world clamp down
that I retire
Fear, pain, anxiety but most of all

How to say what have to be said?
How not to retaliate?
How to be , without extinguishing the others being?

I know , of all sentiments ,  mostly
How to learn , instead , compassion?
How to carve it into tendons , moves , breaths?

Today as tomorrow , I might exchange sharpness.
Yesterday, when I did not know
I have failed myself to the one-other.

The arm closed , the embrace denied.

Today, tears are the valueless pearls
of this astonished petrified heart

(@ my lost lover) - 10 December 2019
Today is social media celebration of #HumanRights
The more I scroll
The lest I sense.

Fingers slow down
heart , mind , soul ache.

The list of heroines and heroes
and all the ones in between and beyond
in the overused pendulum of two genders
get longer and longer ...
their fights heavier and heavier

I stop 
Leave the field of celebration , commemoration , anger
to retire for a quiet act of recognition.

Meanwhile seven buses with unwanted refugees
are sent from the nowhere of Bosnia-Herzegovinian border
to the next designed nowhere of Bosnia-Herzegovina&EU
heartless leaderships

Suspended in plain sight their #HumanRights stay

I feel , once and again , surpassed by time

10 December 2019
A gray sky filled by rain and snow
one hour ... two hours ...
five hours ...

Entire days spent on the surface of a keyboard

The always-to-cross-border governed 
this time by electricity and power 
open the magic entrance to data-embodied-bits

0101 00110110 011010 inscrutable sequences
transfer me-to-you-to-me , us-to-us-to-them-to-all

Remote companions
at the many ends of the many keyboards
Borders ourselves of-and-to our data-embodied-bits

 11 December 2019
This is my relation with memory and reality
: a step in the door
: the uncertainty of the future

 11 December 2019 (reviewed 21 March 2021=
I do think of myself while thinking of the rest
and get this self untangle from the rest

a whirl of love , despair  and , expectation
captured in a note , a pad , an erratic typing

That's when the move from the I to the We
(released from the fear of  T H E M)
has a smile of solitude and absence

11 December 2019 (reviewed 21 March 2021)
There are days when I can only think of what next
fearing the decaying body
lost to the connection of the present

I jump
I run
I scream

Than occurs an accident
The unexpected augments
all other people's realities

The contorted self
become eventually redeemed
by love and compassion
by trust and belief

12 December 2019 
Un letto troppo grande rende il cuore minuscolo e sperduto

12 December 2019 
Come trovare gli angoli umidi del cuore?
La capacità minuscola di essere magnifiche?

12 December 2019 

This morning words were of the unsaid,
meanings in-between and behind

A sound mirror
reflection of pauses and cracks
of desire and being
of have and don't and get


Have to be honest
in the everyday life 
I don't miss you

Is just during the non-doing
that your absence
hit as a freezing breath of immobility


I would have loved you
but now
is too late
my heart is done
and you are in the afterlife

13 December 2019 
It is in this way that my days pass
the breakfast, the sandwiches, their school
my work, my desk, my computer

The Mondays, the Tuesdays, the Wednesdays
all the way to the Fridays 

Of the Saturdays and SUndays
better not to talk

TV on demand, books a lot of necessary shopping
and the loneliness of one-left-alone by death

14 December 2019 
We sit on a tiny bench
I hold your hand you hold mine
the air is crisp, the green wild,
the sound of the hyperactive town
distant and loose

I try and try
the daylight breaks
and so the alarm

times pushes 
the dream away

16 December 2019 
Consumed by exposure
by the work of saying and doing
by the obligation to B E visible

A flag to be seen
A voice to be heard

Submerged, drowned
devoured by urgency
the next heroine is E L E V A T E D

17 December 2019 
A bla-bla session on human rights starts

With the hope to be surprised
I sit, one among the many
as audience to the talk

The opening is one-gender-only

I stay, imagining their bodies 
different from what projected

Relentless the bla-bla goes on

18 December 2019 
A fixed frame
a stopped image


the only proof
of this me
sitting next to no-one


Same day
same time
take the streets


Reality is more than perception

19 December 2019
I hear you, she says
and I believe

I hear you, she says
and I?

I am the S H E of an untied circle
the she , the you , the me
the one, the two, the three

I am the anxious and the certain
the questioning and the questioned

I am
I am not

The line
The round
The hole

I did love
I did hate
I made angered promises
I stayed
I left

. a full stop
, a coma
~ a suspension

Caught reflection of a pitiful self

20 December 2019 
Two poetry - one for Sunday and one for the evening in wait 

I am passionate with words -you say
It's true -I answer

(I lost the one person I loved to a suicide -I whisper to myself
Can you imagine how many times each words rewind
with its potential wounds?

And yet, I am passionate with words, the knife sharpened
into what could be the next heart)


Poetry unsettle me
and comfort

Make me strong 
and vulnerable

Poetry is the way
I exist in life

23 December 2019
I live in a country 
where I was not born

circumstances and will
brought me here

circumstances and will
kept me here

Circumstances and will
are two spared earrings
different in shape , purpose
and strenght

I wear them sometimes casually
other proud and intentionally

they never fail to remind me
of the country and its legacy

25 December 2019
If I could leave everything
I would transform in a lake
hidden by mountains

I would surrender my heart
at its bottom
surpassed by the water
insurmountable and still

If I could leave everything
I would become
the sky and clouds
above the lake
to look at the heart
reckoning its soul

25 December 2019
the bell , the door
the open , the close
the right , the wrong
the now , the after

a pendulum
a spectrum

the might be
the ought be
the must
the will

a me , a she , an us , a they
a room , a bed , a mirror , a shower

the touch , the grip
the mess , the order
the mind , the body
the blink , the shuttering

tuning of spirals
of infinite desiring

26 December 2019

Sitting in the kitchen
one coffee after the other

no tik tok
no calendar
no apps to scroll

A shower
some washing
of clothes and dishes

of not-doing

the brain
the solitude
of the body

26 December 2019
The story says she left
but stories have as many sides
as the tellers

In the story she left
and her she was staying alone

In the story there is a flat
and a cemetery

In the story there is
no happy ending
or sorrow

It is an end-story
for evenings
with though silences
pumpkin soup
black pepper
and a cat

and it is a story
with the unnecessity
of tomorrow

27 December 2019
Coming back to places never really brings anything back, is a fast forward instead into a present without (our) youth.

Walking trough the streets, between the buildings, into gardens and parks where we have spent time drinking, sipping, tossing our bad and good days, the youth we see are not the youth we were.

Years, similarly to passed seasons had rolled wrinkles on all faces. We traveled to rejoin the one time where we are not and, most probably, we never be. 

Memories like tales, live in the moment of narration, in the sparking lights reflected by the eyes of the listeners. Because of them, when re-visiting, our talks searches for the ghosts. We call upon them as calling a spell of possible going back. By surprise, the memories for one second become the door opening to the miracle.

30 December 2019
It is a private pain. A cold marble tomb. The snow.
Light the lanterns. Pose the arranged flowers. 
Pose the silver-green new year ornament. 
Re-light the lanterns. One. Two. Three times. Win the wind.
Take a photo from your perspective. The one of the corpse laying in the coffin under the snow, under the cold marble tomb.
Tears run. I run. You stay. Under the snow. Under the flowers. Under the lanterns. Under the silver-green new year ornament.

30 December 2019
As simple as life

Good morning. A cold polluted sun. Frozen snow. Last school day before the last night of the year. The mother sits in the kitchen with a cold coffee. Rap loud music fills up the little apartment. It is Coolio@s Gangast's Paradise. One of the sons is in the bathroom, the other in the bedroom. Their voices come together to sing another Eminem hit. The sons are fifteen years old. The mother is fifty-three years old or she will be soon.

It is the 31st December 2019. The cat on the couch fall asleep. Outside is - 100. Inside the heating defuses it to a comfortable warmth. All three and the cat live together in the small capital of an unfinished country. Both, the country and the capital are in a permanent resistance to changes and against better.

The sons and the mother are busy. Tonight for the last night of the year they will eat and drink at a friend's place. Tonight at New Year's Eve they will be together. Than alone. Than together. Than on their own. This will be as simultaneous, as parallel, as continuous as in life.

 31 December 2019

What is remembrance?
What is memory?
What is a personal past?

A glimpse of a posture?
The color of some eyes?

We are solitude and companionship
We are the fragile line - the tiny rope connecting
the what we knew with the who we were

sometimes 2019
2020 #DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities
A new day

A new day! It was already 10:25 a.m., until when a day can be considered new? Does it depend from the wake up time? Or is a clockwise thing?

The woman sits in her kitchen. In front of her: coffe, tablet, sugar bowl, mobile phone. on her right the bread-red-metal-box. All before hand nails scissors, a pen, the red pot with yesterday's warmed up coffee, wholegrain crackers. 

No music, the player is in the sitting room. She does not like playing music from youtube or her phone app. Actually she has no music on her phone. Plenty of applications but no music. It is a productivity phone.

The woman has a productivity life, that's why is so important to understand the real e x t e n s i o n of the "new-day" thing.
What to do with the old was the unanswered question, looming yet still hidden.

How to look at all these former new-days? How to hold what was or might have been? How to move on in the new-day-thing with no burden of the old-day-thing and the aspirations for the new-day that the old-day was carrying within?

The woman understands that those are all philosophical questions, no productivity whatsoever. So, it is the past in its un-coming and un-becoming the real trouble. It is her walking onto possible futures while looking at the possible pasts.

There is this pain in loneliness that just stays and never leaves. Most of the time covered by productivity noises. Messages. Animated stickers. Emails. Voice notes. So much going on to cover the un-going.

Her mother would disagree. Her mother was very careful. She had no pleasure for philosophical questions. She dressed. Worked. Cooked. Here and there had plain standalone love or, so she said.

Was her, the daughter, the one made for philosophical questions and pain.

01 January 2020
The woman knew her time was heading towards the end. The slowness of her thinking, the aching of her body, the uncertainty of legs and hands.

No more time to pack, lock the door and start the car.

Time, the precious thing everyone runs short of and, still everyone spends in empty afternoons, lonely nights, morning of repetitive actions, was moving away from her.

She remembered how hard she had fought against the time but now, the fight was unimportant and late. 

She was unimportant and late. 
Life was on its course and she was late too late.

02 January 2020
The be , the love
The do , the see
The take , the give

The how , the who
The curse , the bless
The hand , the eyes
The other person's eyes

That eyes
That hand
That curse
That bless
That who
That how
That do
That see
That be
That love

The unlocking , the moving on
The leaving
The struggle
The exhausted soul has left

03 January 2020
The woman started her morning with exactly the same thinking of the day before and the one before to that one.

Year after year she had learned to become bored enough to stand up and do the things that need to be done.

It was not a necessity for her to do, not a necessity for her to go on. But once the waking up flow started she would complete the round. She would never stop it or break it half way trough.

Toilet, turning on the heating, dressing, emptying the sink, starting the dish-washing machine, taking her notebook, lifting the blue pen ink, making the list of what to buy.

Lists and lists of to-do and to-undo. Lists and lists of intentions parked on this and all previous recycled paper's notebooks.

Doing! What an immense waste of time.

Thinking, dreaming. The coffee getting cold. The list disappearing. The world of her imagination opening up and devouring yet another day.

05 January 2020
T. wakes up with the same dream, leaves the bed. The cat follows.
T. opens the drawer, takes half hand of dray food and puts it in the cat's bowl. The cat eats.
T. looks at the time on her phone to see if she can go to bed or not. The not wins.
T. prepares the coffee, drinks it scrolling news and few horoscops. Than leaves. She has to work.

None who knows T. knows what her job is, except that is a regular one from nine to five. It pays bills and two holidays per year, abroad. T. herself is not sure what her job is, but help her to maintain the dreaming and the cat.

06 January 2020

Words, like essential oils
rare, dispersed and difficult to choose

Words, like lost familiarities
parse, reused times and again

Words, the one unspoken
prevented breaths
of gripped throats

the ones thought in silence
the ones misused and twisted

Words instead of hands, arms, legs
bodies of accomplished companionship

07 January 2020
Paralysis and antidotes

Have you ever tried to stom moving?
Have you ever tried to stop thinking?

I have

It was the decision of the mind the one to stop
It is the reflex of the body the one to move

08/09 January 2020
There are days we wish we are two, a double
There are days we know we are more than the one person people's eyes look at

08/09 January 2020 reviewed 21 march 2021
A minuscule beat of the heart
the winter invades the mind
the system shuts down

It is for the body rejoining
the trembling hands
to call for the spring

08/09 January 2020
Dices - numbers - probabilities
deadly games - mind's plays

We stay in our repetion
as in secured towers
following path - schemes
conjecture of connections


we - tokens of
the weather
the seasons
the years

The nobody-but-young
The not-suffering
The full-of-hopes
The megaphones-of-believes

We - pledgers-of-the-change-to-happen
Which did not
We did not

The towers now are hospices
for all the W E who never become

10 January 2020
Small words require the same fatigue of long one
They are neither simpler or understandable.
They are small by an accident of printing.
They become bigger by the force of lenses and magnifiers.

10 January 2020
Ears cannot help if the heart is deaf

10 January 2020
Absorbed by passwords typing
repositories' building
I had imagined myself otherwise

The moment gone
the room , the chair
the second hand machine
reveals the material essence 
of my own world
against the digital vastity
of the many others

A fragmented travel
of bits and dots
reunites latitudes and longitudes
of soreness and age

10 January 2020
It is for the love of the only-other or for the love of the lost-self
that the knife cuts deep excavating life from the body?

10 January 2020
Can I ask a question? - You say
Will I have the answer? - I respond

And do answers really matter? or is more the pleasure of this chatting in togetherness?

10 January 2020
An acute fragment
an elaborated matrix
an I N C R E D I B L E thinker

The ellipse intrigued by the curve - the rounded dot engulfing
the multi color painting of a sequence in a dream 

Of a simple woman with a simple life in a simple country of a simple town with a simple flat in a simple room on a simple bed

10 and 22 January 2020

What we remember of each other?
The hard? The soft?
The trust? The breach?

Sitting at the kitchen table
trying remembering the how it was
the what did happened and the what not

It is difficult to draw the line
It is more difficult to review the details

Today - tonight - tomorrow
how to answer?
what honesty to pull?

The one of the heart?
The one of the stomach?
The one of the processing brain?

I do know about feelings
The way they flow or don't

I do know I do not feel you
not with me nor against

Still at this table is the never to come
the never to exist that hurt

10 January 2020
I sit on this odd wooden ladder
and hold your hand
you lie on your bed in the dark

You are the son
I am the mother

We stay like this
until you fall asleep

23 January 2020
Yesterday L O V E had come to me. A unique sign. 
I was there but busy. Secluded in the on demand sound of a podcast.

23 January 2020
Turning points

How to recognize a turning point?
It is the holding of the instant
when the breath in one's body stops?

Or is the illuminate minute of smile
between the fading away past
and the hiccup of the future?

30 January 2020
I had the pleasure of hugging her
and be hugged back
It was invisible to most 
but tactile to me

I hoped to be the same for her
but it was not

She do not hug me back anymore

Sometimes is not because of what we said
Sometimes hugs are simply taken away from us

30 January 2020
And here we are
in the age of connectedness
One from Another
fearing the invasion of our bodies
the take-over of the infinite small
the invisible still persistent
illness of one virus

these will be seasons of no-travel
seasons of staring at screens
texts to type voices to record

we are
submerged by the unexpected
yet known

we are hostages of the unjust unfinished systems of our countries
we are displaced in home mutated in permanent mirrors 
of our staying in our immobile rebellion 

we do
we create them
as artisans model clay

the fear of the night organically swell into the morning
yet as evidence of the doubting what-next
pins pensive the times we live in

05 March 2020 reviewed 21 march 2021
Consent, fragility, non-sense.

Contained. Defined. Reproached. Limited the W E comes and explains all the same as all times before

The N O questions and re-questions until the W E starts doubting. Steps back and remembers otherwise .

One day the W E will start screaming and wil not stop. An endless uncontrollable scream will run from east to east. Circling the world in every direction and diagonals.

It will jump meridians. Excavate mountains. Corrodes buildings. Consume Highways.

8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Those rules that you call upon
belong to the forceful light

I am, myself, a small force
and no force at all

I am the tension sitting in-between,
the invisible thread in the fabric,
the powder before the colors

I am the feverish and the dreamer,
a dismissed kernel of machine
and the surrender

8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021

Many years had passed since the first time the man told the woman he was in love with her.

The same many years had passed since the woman questioned and refused the offered love:

a) She was not in love with the man
b) The man was married to some other

The man at first nodded, seemed to understand. Than few days after cam back offended, he said, outraged. He had offered his heart to her and instead of honoring it. The woman had refused it.

The woman stood her N O. Busted her voice. Than built a wall around herself. For months she made sure to never be alone with the outraged man.

The woman was young. The man was in his middle age.

8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Tiny boats
Tiny waves
Tiny women
Tiny hopes

8 March 2020
A person waits for a call
No network coverage

Solitude augmented to unsustainability
the future, the tomorrow, the next hour collapsed

At the other end of the solitude
a second person

the phone in her hands, on her lap, near the bed
she doubts herself, her belly, her feelings

the dawn, the ring, the explanation
the embrace, the sex, the shower, the breakfast

in the felicity of the closed distance
the glimpse of each other eyes

Network down: a sign for an end
the drive trough buses and time
the signal of a beginning

technology is the excuse none of them will play

8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
Second choice of any kind of love

Dishonesty of some-heart
Unrecognized best opportunity
Parked friend
Last minute invitation
Most frequent consolatory arm

It is a curse and to stop and break it
one has to run and run and run
until the one-heart is healed

8 March 2020 reviewed 21 March 2021
The oneself

I hear the music
the moon is playing for the lovers

I see the dance
the lovers are playing for the moon

I am none of them
I am neither around

I am sitting at the bottom of the ocean
replenished and still hungry

I am swimming bellow the continents
as the fire run trough the earth

I am the unnoticed detail 
that can go wrong

I am the too much
in a satisfying talk

I am the unfitting, the misplaced
the unidentifiable regrettable past

Surely, I was asked and required to come
but than I would overdo to be the very similar
the likely, the unique, the beautiful-beautiful

So, I retained that yes
and escaped the memory
as the time and the oneself

Meanwhile the moon got bigger
the dancers wilder

8 March 2020
The crowd

We, a plural you and the dystopian me are carrying on a conversation. The tone sounds cold, a middle anger mediated by the practice. We are many, yet not all.

We look at each other, priestesses of dead rituals and weakened magic. The crowd is coming. The crowd is and will be stronger. We have to decide whether to ally or depart.

 You, the plural, leave. I impoverished stay. The crowd is here and than is not anymore. It did not stopped at the one. It did not noticed the one. The crowd is after the many, you. And you are not enough for the crowd.

The crowd swallows, eats, devours, finishes each of the parts as you were one. Satisfied, the crowd disperses.

I am were you, the many were. I have no sense or purpose. Yet, I have to find one for you, the many who were and for the crowd which still is.

As priestess of a dead cult I cannot raise the power we held. I can whisper and sing. Make a story of who you were, mull the unfinished anger. Or, I can disregard the past, honoring a future where you, the many, became the crowd and the one who is me is extinguished.

Years pass, the crowd becomes another crowd and yet another. Each crowd evolves with the story. Each crowd bathes by its absolute love and enchantment.

Meaning is not for the crowd or the many and even less for the left-alone priestess. Meaning stays with the silent ones, in the quietness of a room away from the crowd, away from the many. Open to the ones who can prevent their anger and can transform the crowd.

The priestess sings and dances and weaves the sun with the air, the air with the grass, the grass with the sky. While she dances dust transforms to fly, than to butterflies and, at the end in thousand and thousand birds.

The crowds comes back to look, to touch, to talk with no voice. The crowd dances and sings. Calls for the sun and the clouds and pledges power to the priestess.

The priestess is not alone. The I which is me is not alone anymore. The cult is alive and with it is the magic. YOu, the many are resurrected, beloved and renamed.

This time, the priestess says to herself, no more tricks. Only love.

8 March 2020 
As a drop from leaf to earth
I dance precariously in life

Of the fall I recount
the missing light of the moon
and the silent void of the birds

10 March 2020
The yes, the no, the why, the who, the how
and there again the when, the what else, the why me 

Questions questioning questions
feel the day with inconsistencies

In the secluded room, answers lye
unheard and undiscovered.

10 March 2020
One hand washes the other hand
In the bathroom's sink, water mixes with soap
Twenty seconds counted and recounted
sum up worries and care of this shared accompanied lives

10 March 2020
What do I really know?

Very few
Very much
Or someone

Yet is not in the knowing
the magic
is in the awakening

10 March 2020
Today I sit waiting for what usually happens. Suddenly the mind playback a brute forces attacks against yesterday.
And there I am, still collecting pieces from the metaphorical floor of my life.

10 March 2020
A framework is just a way to shape / contain / rend visible a thinking from one person to the other and, while happening, breathing the beautiful lustful circling of exchanging.

10 March 2020
The forgotten

The eager west, threatened in its consumption of the world, 
has occupied all timelines in the news.
Life reduced to one ill dimension fits full screen our minds.

I wonder where are the refugees and their millions?
The locked-down survivors victims of perennial wars?
The poor starved by a devastated planet?

In the denied justice of all continents but one Europe
Whiteness recites its darkest mantra

Minuscule particle in the forced treatment
of a numerous minority
I feel contained and overexposed
How to unskin myself from their over-entitlement?

18 March 2020
Two year ago the main struggle in my life was making sense of my partner's suicide and my son's diagnosis of diabetes

I entered the year with the quiet hope of resilience.

Worst is a word whose echo depends form the vastity of the cave.

18 March 2020
If I ask you to name a human catastrophe, would you pick the lost lives of Europeans to the covid pandemic or the rotten bodies on the bottom of the Mediterranean and the killed by gunfire at its borders?

18 March 2020
Walking int the early morning
of an awakening spring
the unnatural silence 
of no-car hits the brain.

To recognize oneself
into exceptional times
takes entire days

Emotional the clock
ticks and trembles

Am I a mirror of the more or less selfish?

18 March 2020 reviewed 21 march 2021
Reality mediated by the voice of power
misses the human glue of solidarity

I am living, fearing, resisting
and many more verbs

cause I am a link in a chain
where love matters
bodies feel 
and moneys are far from endless

18 March 2021
Hiding spring

In the northern hemisphere
spring plays hide and seek with winter
The blue sky gone, the gray clouds take over
The people of the land looking for repair:
roof, trees, cheaper umbrellas.

Under refuge only the cats stay sane
while the anxiety of today trips the hope of tomorrow

The one who decide who sheltered and who not
face and hands corrupted beyond recurse
greed as the invariant of every days
have their friends, relatives, allies employed
as directors of health, safety and supplying.

They are people's true despair,
merciless winter of egoism and arrogant rapacity
Looting the land for their wealth and mansions
Looking after income. Gelid and adamantly
calculating and numbering acceptable losses
to bust their greater good.

While the people, the disposable
consumable removable numbers
stand still the hurling of the weather
waiting and chanting for the spring
holding and praying for the numbers to stay.

Under the roofs, the trees, the broken umbrellas
the people know the land is tired and unhappy.

No winter can bar the most broken of the spring
will come the time for the land and the people
to name the better day of a revolution

22 March 2021
Typing is physical
hands touching keyboard
lips breathing on mic

That's sweat anguish excitement
trepidation and curiosity
all intertwined
by the rhythmic
pressing of lungs and fingertips.

I do believe we can sense them all
while words or their sound
become messages
on each other side
of our devices' tabs apps

19 April 2020
Se potessi ritirarmi in un altrove
fatto di parole assennate e mormide
le userei come cuscino per la testa e il corpo stanco

19 April 2020
Today I woke up
in the already tomorrow
intangible the days move
along time-zones on my laptop

Unaccomplished the body
ritualizes life in transportable
digital instances

Surfaces to each others
in this close intimacy
of one-click-away

19 April 2020 reviewed 21 March
What is said in silence

The minute omission of our names
from accounted memories of stories

We were but we are not anymore
were known but we are not anymore

How shall we m a n a g e?

Shall we break abruptly and gracelessly?
Shall we bear insightful deep smiles?
Shall we distance sterilize and clean?
Shall we have irrelevant yet developing lives?

Silences taste at times sour at times mellow
Material as we are takes place in collective troubleness

19 April 2020
The bell jar - Silvia Plath

I hear you
Hear your pain
You are gone
and I hear you

I hear you 
in the again

Death is less about sileces
more about voices

Sylvia Plath has brought
your pain, our pain back

Deaths talk deaths
Riddles turn plain words
Nothing is about the why
Everything is about the pain

The pain made you
leave yourself
I hear it
I know it

24 may 2020
There is no such a thing as a closure
Unanswered questions the companions
Loss, a long perpetual diluted rite

10 June 2020
There is no time for poetry
except that never
is the time for poetry
So poetry must be
from the small flat
of the small town
in this small country
of this small world
I invoke vastness
into the ∞ of love

∞ to weave
planets with stars
time with space
until black holes
bloom the alleys
of all multiverses

14 June 2020
Sensing the external
that shapes my body
for people's eyes

I am not there
othered  by
exhaustive selves

20 June 2020
Cats and sun are a win-win game
Why I am non of them?

20 June 2020
I make sound into sentences - you say
I stop, all of a sudden mute
catching the last echoes
of the love you had for me

20 June 2020
It is stunning the scarce fantasy
of the intruders the harassers

Gifs of perpetual violence
their human 0101 bits mimic boxing
one-two compulsive pushing

Launched sequentially
waves of bots hunt the personal
to breach into the imaginary storage
to fingerprints the brute force attack
to implant the dirty contructions
onto the hard memory of the bodies

Destructive analogues rush the digital
to shut down the feared feminists
they want to harm - delete - finish

We the feminist disarm - resist - bleed
reconvene - reflect - name - chant

Attack after attack in the interspaces
of the patriarchal misogynistic architecture
of the internet we build Spaces-of-Wonders

23 June 2020
The very first poetry is reading
It is an metaphorical act 
a futuristic replay and fast-forward

Daughters of desires, me, us, they, many
enact ritual listening to spoken silences

Is an immersion in the stupendous 
in the magnitude of curiosity
beyond writers' worlds of words

27 June 2020
Helga did not like her name. To be honest she didn't like anything of herself or the world. And why she should had to? Words and the body were a constant failure. Unable to stick to anything. A fact. A Promise. A recipe.

Helga was easy to satisfy trained by no expectations, desires or requests. Educate to listen, to obey, to preserve. Her outside was with no surprise too. A standard package of female features.

The inside either. Accurately submissive, patiently fed with fear, repeatedly domesticated by immobility. Still, somewhere in Helga, N O had a place. Stubborn and hard. Impossible to eradicate. Helga knew her N O would led her to termination.

Days passing, she decided termination would be her only action. The real problem was H O W? How to trigger the right command? How to be the one choosing the moment and pressing the key?

Helga knew that was about imploding the machine. Calling for the highest number of operations and their exponential fastest growth.

When she did it. When it happened. She was clear the world would never understand that was her. Just a massive DDOS trough millions appliances and cheap systems.

The next day someone shared a discovery of a kind of zero exploit. The weirdest ever. A fail that had determined algorithm Helga to annihilate thousand and thousand of servers and shutdown herself for ever. Irreparably.

27 June 2020
Loss is the aftermath

Loss is in the aftermath of life
It was, it danced, it followed the wind
It sat on the couch as a different body
in a different day of many different years

Loss is in the aftermath of motion
stands invisible, intangible at the end
of love, at the end of time, at the end
of the longest as well of the shortest rope

Loss is in the aftermath of who is or was sprout from
the making of one another, from avoidance at the 
calm intersection of pencil, paper, scissors

Loss is in the aftermath of breaths between words,
rooms for outside eyes running, staying, spacing out

Loss is in the aftermath of talks, memories of digested pasts
hungered for the same cannot-chew-spit-taste-melt-swallow

Loss is in the aftermath of daughters, sisters
mothers, fathers, lovers, acquaintances or friends

Loss is in the aftermath of a fact. Its consequences
guessed. Pills held between fingers until throated

Loss is in the aftermath of days of their ordinary
calendar reputation, their fatigue fading away

Loss is in the aftermath of the blanket failing
the shoulders, the loneliness scolding the sun
the noise glamouring prurient-visiting-relatives

Loss is in the aftermath and where else?
Alternate evidence of truth and un-truth,
crack of unfinished lies, suggested prophecies
and obtuse realities

Loss is in the aftermath of litanies with parrish goddesses
restless toddler, uncooked food

Loss is in the aftermath of smell, in the astrological shushing of mathematical projection for the yet-to-come-yet-to-be-sensed

Loss is in the aftermath of itself, antecedent to what will come
the head rested on the earth, in the dirty grass of a side-park

Loss is in the aftermath with no postponement,
no prevention or obstruction. Nullifying and swinging

Loss is in the aftermath of perennial tides
bashing micro-millions grains of outstanding clouds

Loss is in the aftermath of the involuntary
the inescapable and yet-to-be-survived

21 July 2021

Sitting on an impractical swing
the body goes up and down, up again, down again
zapping from fast forward to 16x rewind

Alone in the distinct solitude of the swing
within the obtuse silence of the swing
quiet self-reflecting beings all around
produce unmanageable feeling and
disbarring thoughts

Higher, faster, catching shorter and shorter glimpses 
of the downs, the stomach tense to surpass the muscles

The wind around has the chill touch of displaced corps.
The body conjure to be sucked.
The swing conjure to swirl vacant.

The voice pray to creep in parallel multiverses
the breath goes compulsory on thinking and spinning
in free fall of immagination

Multiverses can be reached on feet
It is the same day elsewhere
Sucked indeed.

29 October 2020
The island

Is it true, this thing of the pandemic?
Is it true, it kills some and make rich others?
Is it true, it kills by census and race?

I spend the time before sleep in fear. I go back and forth to my material and immaterial accounts moving and pinning them on an invisible board of privilege and  dispossession. The more I look, the more the board becomes tiny, weightless and confused.

That's not to say my privileges are gone, 
more that they are not so strong or large or heavy
to boost and catapult this me into the comfort and
safety of privilege's island

Invariably I fall asleep while spinning and spinning on the verge of the elusive entrance, to wake up the next morning on the shore of my so-far secure-job, my so-far owned two-rooms apartment in one the main towns of the various margins of continent.

In the daylight there is no shadow on any of my inherited privileges. What I fail to see, in the daylight, is the erosion the island brings onto the continent.

I might find comfort in my privileges and I might imagine it is a question of time before they land me on the island where privileges never succumb.

At night, the denseness and enormousness of the dispossessed tells a different story. It tells me I  belong to the continent too. I am just a dispossessed-to-be cause the island cast a shadow only the night can reveal.

14 November 2020 reviewed 22 March 2021
2021 #DiversitàInverse #InverseDiversities
To be added in the coming hours / days

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