London fields
 |
| The smoke curtain |
The way he held the bottle of wine showed me a glimpse of how it was to be a person of the earth.
He had for many years rolled around the vast fields of the North, covered by a gloomey sky constantly
in fear of being about to cry. He had only known that feeling of wet guilt for all the things he had done hiding
under the apple trees in the orchard his grandfather used to own when the hands of a man were still the best tools
to create the wealth of a family.
Now he walked around on two wheels scared of falling and breaking every single wish and desire he ever had
on the stone cold London winter. The holes in his clothes were war wounds of the better times to come, ahead
of us was the golden eternity, and behind a series of unfortunate, or ephemeral moments of bright truth soon to
be forgotten. The things one learns walking in a field of crows, oh boy!
Between all these fallen signs of a dying Autumn, brightly coloured wings of heavy rooted trees. I found that I had
lost my skin, peeling off in the minus zero nights of this city, I screamed my poem out loud hoping that it'd arrive
to you, as you were getting older and I was growing younger.
 |
| Minus 5 |
 |
| Soul Kitchen |
 |
| White rabbit |
 |
The fox and the terrier |
 |
| You are what you eat |
 |
| Baby, I'm bored |
 |
| Featherheaded |
 |
| Francesco |
 |
| Mama told me not to come |