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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.