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the white lights of the night We're so

It does not mean anything.
's a song.
As if that name attached to that face, expresses feelings. But then
.
Then again a name only, without a sound appearance. The
nothing is nothing.
long as it fills.
And everything becomes nothing.
And everything becomes nothing.


"You know what it's like the passing of time, Erika?"

An application in a low voice, while you rinse hair and thoughts.

"No!"

A response to loud, to drown the noise of the jet that keeps the soap.

You do not understand why the fuck! Crystallized in your few years you take to equal a lifetime.

The Sleeping Beauty in its merdosissimo forest. There was-just as the sun and your father was smiling teeth white and shiny, just-barely illuminated by soft rays fans. Shone every blade of grass, perfect load of a single drop of dew from a specially set divina.Ascoltami hand, listen: it was a poem that morning. The nostrils pinched by a cool water that refreshes as brilliant: a taste of September to swallow satisfied. The rest was ordered. In the perfect picture of perfect family lacked only a caption, the rest no: there was everything else. The machine polished to a car wash, my script to mothers with an apron of fabric softener scented with vanilla, the sound of the door that opens and closes leaving merry-merry-unconscious on the stage of that patch of the garden of our house, independent three sides. Inside, still in suspense, the objects of hello: notes muffled by the walls of a radio playing in the half-empty cups of milky coffee, the aroma of coffee on the windows fogged the mirror with two drops sprayed from the brush. There. From there you should be sparse, the imperfection. Had placed the corner stained, the sink dry patchy halo. Instead. The mistake that fate hath been clinging. It locates the error and bad luck, from that point, it expands like wildfire. As they say. The music has slipped up to me: "All of my city, a desert that I know ..."

And listen to me, Erika! The world stood still as the image block of a video recorder geezer: a line to the center of the screen to shake the frame better. The red folder with the sheep hath been drawn tilted back, too low, even for those who-like you-he was laughing and playing circle, with a father who became t'aveva airplane. A father is still happy, because an ignorant father, moved from laughter the closed eyes, has not seen the sky turn black. Suddenly. I have, I have guardato.E I opened my mouth on that landscape as a disaster: the pieces of the puzzle are falling and everything, everything became clear the dark, the beautiful ugly, the light heavy. While screaming your name and you-down, puppet, my poor puppet-to drool and foam twist in the middle of strong odor of feces and urine. Six dead in that time. We are with you. You went away with the sound of the siren. For you a caricature, a grotesque little girl with broken wrists and eyes looking to the side. A stuffed bear without the padding.

"The time passing this water is going down! "I say not to feel alone.

"Again?" Ask me no sense, a dog licking a guancia.Come.

And I caress you like a puppy.

It does not mean anything.
's a song.
As if that name attached to that face, expresses feelings. But then
.
Then again a name only, without a sound appearance. The
nothing is nothing.
long as it fills.
And everything becomes nothing.
And everything becomes nothing.

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NoI smurfs

There is a large closet, closed. Take care to
listen, Jesus Benedict holy and good.
There is a large closet, closed.
nasty filthy whore and a slut and whore.
These words leak out from the thoughts make, fire, inside the ears.
I have two big eyes like a dog.
Two large eyes with long eyelashes.
Take care to listen, Jesus Benedict holy and good.
Forgive them for what they say and think and say and think nasty filthy whore and a slut and whore.
of the leaf that clings to a mobile locked us inside the mirror world: the wall is often lined paper in red and purple flowers, the Madonna and Child holding hands into a basin full of golden curls, the bedside with the lamp-fake-candle, the headboard of the bed in wrought iron.
I follow with their own eyes the metal which are backed pads, linings pink wrinkled and tired of thoughts: leaves rigid and fake, to draw shadows on the bedspread caked the center.
that lump on: me. Inside
myself a strong flavor of the heart that beats strong.
I feel on the palate: it is the taste of fear.
whore of a bitch. I
chest explodes.
filthy whore.
I hear it comes.
whore. Saliva
hot lurking on the tongue, blood pulsing against the temples, wrists aching creaking from within.
cats up at the bottom of the mattress and I'm staring at me, inside the plate that reflects me: I have seven years and I star tranquillo, Gesù Benedetto Santo e Buono.
Ho sette anni e mi fisso mentre mi fisso, con quei due occhi grandi da cane.
Vorrei chiamare ma, dall’altra stanza, arrivano parole che conosco bene.
Allora mi sorrido e mi guardo rispondere al sorriso.
Poi casco ad arti all’aria, come uno scarafaggio sulla corazza: porca di una troia e puttana lurida e bagascia.
La schiuma ai lati delle labbra è spessa ed insapore.
Prima di voltare gli occhi all’indietro prego Gesù, ancora, Benedetto Santo e Buono.

Winnie the Pooh appare saltellando fin sulla mia pancia: boing-boing.
Rimbalzo di riflesso anch’ io, con una risata a scatti: finalmente da bambino.
"Cheffai?" I asked the bear with one paw on a red shirt and the other sfregazzare chin, surprised expression.
"Nothing," I say, "The usual crisis!" Dragon Ball
I checked, so sharp and statuary above the head.
outstretched arms to warm waves of energy, her legs wide to try not to lose balance and reputation: "Take courage!" I almost screams, "Take courage!" Repeated lowering his head and look at my body trembles as rapid seizure continuous discharge.
"I do not think you have to call your mother?" And the voice comes on to the chandelier.
E 'a clown fish swimming in the air.
"Forget it. Now he is arguing with Dad. Do you think she would like to be bothered to come here to look at me while I piss on you? "

And then?
And then my grandmother.
My grandmother appeared at the door: low fat, with small blue flowers in the dress of all time, the brown checkered apron tied springs to life.
"Matthew, Matthew! Always make me worry! "
And soothe me, soothe me a mess.
soothe me while I look and I feel the smell of old cologne.
soothe me and something that came up: walking, almost flying, ten inches from the ground, while the floor is full of festive smurfs emitting strange ways. I see everyone striving
the neck down and raising it to say that aroma of person who loves me that is reciprocated.
But the figures of all blur and allow only sounds and noises, grunts and chants. Small
songs by children. Trullallà-trullallà.
E tac: the light, that great, come on. Via
all: Winnie, Dragon, Nemo, Grandma ... you hear me? Can you hear me?

When the shock became quiet I find myself lying like a calf: the four legs joined by a hypothetical rope.
My mother strokes his forehead with a damp pezzuolina.
I think to know that profanity out of that mouth, she repeats that now has passed and that no use be afraid.
I say in my head, without voice, that Jesus has saved me again. Benedict
Jesus holy and good. Then enter
dad and, at the foot of the bed, shelling a couple of curses against the disease that makes me different.
Forgive what he says and thinks, I suppose.
forgive him.
And me.

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Try to write anything

by Italo Calvino *



Anything trying to write to express my admiration for Ernesto Che Guevara, for how he lived and how he died, it seems out of tune. I hear his laughter which I replied, full of irony and pity. I am here, sitting in my study, among my books, in the fake peace and prosperity pretending, I spend a short period of my job to write, without any risk of a man who has willingly assumed all risks, which has not accepted the fiction of 'a temporary peace, a man who asked himself and the other the greatest self-sacrifice, believing that any savings sacrifices now will pay tomorrow with a sum of even greater sacrifices,
Guevara is for us this reminder of the absolute gravity of all As regards the revolution and the future of the world, this radical critique each act that only serves to fix our coscienze.In this sense, he will remain at the center of our discussions and our thoughts, so yesterday was alive today as in death. It 's a presence that does not ask us or consents surface or formal acts of homage, they would amount to misunderstand, to minimize the extreme severity of his lecture. The "line that" demands a lot from men, demands a lot both as a method of struggle is how the perspective of society that must arise from the struggle. Faced with so much consistency and courage in bringing the ultimate consequences thought and life, mostriamoci first modest and sincere, aware of what the "line of Che" means-a radical transformation not only of society but of human nature , starting with ourselves-and conscious of what separates us from putting it into practice.
Discussion Guevara with all who approached him, the long discussion on his short life (-action debate, discussion senz'abbandonare never shotgun), it will not be interrupted by his death, continue to flood. Even for a casual partner and unknown (how could I be in a group of guests, one afternoon in 1964, in his office at the Ministry of Industry) his meeting could not remain a marginal episode. The discussions that count are those who continue then silence, in thought. In my mind the debate that has continued with all these years, more and more time passed he had ragione.Anche now dying in setting in motion a struggle that will not stop, he continues to be always right.
October 1967

Che Guevara was killed in Bolivia October 9, 1967, and the aforementioned text by Italo Calvino was written October 15, 1967 in Paris (where he lived for several months with his wife argentina: it was the day of his 44th birthday ). It was first published in English in Cuba in January 1968 in the magazine "Casa de las Americas" (in a special issue dedicated entirely to the "Che"). Instead, the full original text was published in Italy Italian only 30 years later, in 1998, the number one magazine's "Che" Ernesto Guevara Foundation, chaired by Italian Roberto Massari (based in Aquapendente, Lazio).

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"So Shoot, coward"

My mother, on October 9, bought a music box. The
hung at the head of the bed and did so, girandone the key, that small bees greet me colored gems, among swaying and chanting.
My mother, on October 9, quitted the curtain tassels and fresh, letting in a yellow light that illuminated artificial and my stubby legs.
He looked down, sticking his cheeks and nose to the windows spotless.
I turned the arts into the void, as gasping, maybe I was hungry but decided to wait perhaps a more favorable moment for despair and scream.
When the cloth is lowered on the windows, came a shadow still, peel appearance of a disastrous day.
So, instead of light, a hiss of radio flooded the entire room.
Worldwide.
The ceiling is a sky and the ground floor, sea floor mats and shoe wax rafts.
objects and ornaments as inhabitants of the globe, around: an alarm clock with fluorescent numbers, the picture frame with the peak of the eel noire memories of summer, the soft brush on the shelf of the dresser, on which stood petineusse
the pink of my groups, the container of talcum powder and pinched under the duvet cover, the chandelier drops.
Scent of lavender between the sheets and bedspreads small golden great.
And the hissing voice became.

"... The most credited Guevara recounts how he received several shots to the legs, or to avoid spoiling the face is to prevent the identification ... "My mother


, October 9, sat down with weary hands in his lap.
Hear my cry over every other sound and hoisted me, holding me as a bundle: trophy high above his head.
My mother, on October 9, I nursed and crying at the sound of a poem salvadorena, given to me as a lullaby, I fell asleep first.


Then the old woman said to me
"Look at this dry rose that one day

was enchanted by the magnificence of its season, the time it crumbles
also not very high walls
deprive the book of wisdom. These dried petals
philosophy
no more than can give your wise library;
put it on my lips the magic
harmony with which the cast embodies the dreams of my rock. "
" You're a fairy " I said. "I am a fairy," he said,
"and celebrate the joy of spring, giving life and flight
these leaves of rose."
It turned into a princess and fragrant
into thin air, the fingers of the fairy
flew the dried rose like a butterfly. Rubén Darío



Then she closed her eyes swollen. And
became silent prayer.
was 1967.

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teeth

"Time to leave some marks on the skin!"

Veronika and crosses her legs, her hand gently resting on his knees, shakes his head with one shot: the hair move compact, soft and fragrant.

what could be wrong in his life asked him, looking down on the sheets in front of me, hiding a smile that could offend.
"Everything," he says, "Children make me crazy, work is lousy, the colleagues of the bastards!" And tightens his lips, making a tiny little mouth to heart as a nail of his little finger.

What will I ask looking over his glasses, moving the pen to give me an air of professional and give it a climate official.
"I intend that my children do not understand me, perhaps only the small (it's so nice, that) but great! Grown-ups are messy, dirty and ignorant! You see, Doctor, I come to her to vent things that do not go! I told work I come to tell her that they are very beautiful, very smart and very good. Yet! Yet no work, no one understands him! I told her colleagues: I come to tell her that they are all bad and gossips! Pettegolissimi "

Veronika melts legs and, with his hand behind her head leaning sensually, was irritating smile, very broad and precarious.
"Only him! He alone understands me! "
ask dumb, just a question of eyebrows raised.
The answer is a flirtatious song.
"What love! She kisses me on the stairs and into the living room: press his lips on my lips and embraced me strong. I told my friend Betty: the emotions that he can give me that man is indescribable! Even my daughter saw us, without doing it on purpose as he raised her skirt and stroked my sub-sub and then I have discovered and I yelled "What do you do? I Spy? "And I ran back and sciaff sciaff and, in the face, your ass ... "
The silence lasts a second," I said ass I did not want "no matter
What is a sentence that you speak softly, heartening smile.
Then I ask how the behavior of her husband.

remained staring, silent and immobile, for eight and a half minutes. At the end of that eternity
jumps off his chair and again nine years: "Dad never says a word. Now I can go there and read a Mickey Mouse, until I get in return? "
" Go ahead: see you next week "


" Time is implocabile, Doctor! "
"They say relentless, Veronika, they say relentless," but already I do not listen, and leaving the studio, humming a song from cartoons.

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mirror reflection

Now look at me with those clear eyes: healed and dry the tracks left by tears.
Now that I speak: dumb screaming just to look.
Now that touch me: the space of several steps, such as slicing minutes long spears.
A tremor vibrates inside you and I feel in my throat. A tic
frightened sobs in his thoughts and I will stop with the temples.
A blow at your back: as someone who invites me to move with awkward shots and rude and coarse, this cluster to your body smelling fragrant sparkles from sweaty skin.
happens to you: I understand it! Amplified
any pain bounces stunned.
're a girl: you have your fingers together, weaving them for fun.
Pam: mirror reflection. And they sent me the phalanges creaked him evil with impunity.
Here First: puppets weak and kidnapped.
Love and fragile.
stunned, stunned, mesmerized, seduced, enveloped in this sense.
Lower your shoulders to admit defeat: his eyes glide on the tips of shoes, in the distance, far away.
I have a body that rolls out on the motorway: the tires as graffiti and memories asphalt in which skin incised on the fifteenth of August.

imagined contact, clutching his groin in a single desire: the one who turned the other will in sconcissime genuflections.
licked thoughts pushbuttons as an open cut and bleeding under the sun, fever and delirium, excitement and dreams.
longed penetration and possession, and free desiring static external joy.
I was hungry but had to devour your flesh of Aquolina: I swallowed the inside of the thighs, was the armpit, cheeks and neck, orbits, lobes and teeth and hair. Everything, in some eternal moment: immaculate and compulsive swallowing phallic.
indescribable and endless orgasm.

A-to-iu.
There must be something you can do to prevent the inevitable.
missing oxygen if your image comes to me as well to tighten lids.
The most vivid memories of this.
's hair, soft and wild: a flavor that makes the heart skip buttocks and, simultaneously, in step with joy and desire.
wave of pure pleasure, tickling and languor, which snaps to the center of the tongue on the palate to draw the outline of your lips mousse.
nostrils breathe the air of a doll, by inserting the tip of my nose in every nook and cranny that wants to meet me.
Do not tell me silly if I say desperate because only after the meeting without a name. I
, simple, expand to hold all of you and sighs of relief and small, because the sight of your soul should never miss.
Do not tell me silly even if I would have hoped, but continue to hope, I have spent years.
Coward yes, in fear of terror.
Now.

The same thoughts were dancing on the shoulders minute, smiles wide and framed in curls held back laughter strong and secure.
was a trail that reminded the safety of the affection which to rest: lame crutch strong feelings and pure.
fill spaces and time stretch, that being miraculous and perfect and only made legendary by the absence. Why
baby was tiny and I became with the move away that skirt billowing around anything. Until the rim
disappear, as the strip that separates sea and sky, leaving only that nothing is highlighted.
A music fades, a color that loses volume. How
dance moves going to die, they are not clapping applause.
The recitation is over: paying a single viewer, the monologue of the tragic disappearance.
And the actor, without a grant, runs away with the collection.



My mother knew how to run.
I apologized, a century of prayers.

For black nails below the knees and skinned by carelessness, broken plates and racks of striped colored pencils, dust hidden the carpet and soiled underwear behind, unannounced delays and poor grades torn from the diary, racing bike without a helmet in front of the TV and the silence, let his beard in the sink and the water left open.

pat on the shoulder by a man sitting in the balance left on the finger of a child left alone.
female voice that never give forgiveness.
My mother knew how to run.


Now.
Slowly I turn. And
yield.
I leave before being left again.
die, decides to kill to avoid being assassinated.
because the feeling unworthy is a monster in the closet and closed the salvation of the 'switch, located on the other side of the room. Buia.
We are again small but finished the game.
I wonder if it's a joke vowing eternal rest and that voice: it becomes serious and distantissimo goodbye.
I apologize I can not forgive: it is your fault that made me love you this way. So I

course: too.