I Fell On My Knee And Now It Is Numb And Swollen

We say maybe one day ....


I feel over my wall that every noise is passed,
the 'smell of poor stuff to eat,
see it in the light of a dim bulb, that thirty candles.
between mobile who have never seen other glories, old newspapers
and corners full of dust and smells, the sounds used
and its strange daily rituals: eating
, clear, then wash dishes and hands.

I feel when I come very late in the morning
open the shutters, pull the curtain
and while I'm thinking of
life waiting for me to go slowly, in slippers, to the day waiting for him
and then meet him again when I get up at a certain time gives me a pleasure
absurd his old courtesy
"Good morning, Stephen, how is ?
And the cat? And this time you do not call again ... "

I said a hundred times
sitting on the steps of his dead cat, or a quarrel with his neighbors and tells me
floor, with his tone a bit 'subdued
when he and meadows were younger than now ...

I listen and my thoughts wander back to his life,
How many times seen with a light bulb ancient
at that 'usual smell of dust and mold, and all
soups heated on the stove, and that
ticking alarm clock that marks every second, how
from there you can never see the world,
a 'existence many days in the same way, melancholy and yet the story is passed between these walls ...

I listen to him and do not understand everything around me and wonder
life, as it is and how one manages his
many ways its time, and the possibility
choices, change, fate, the
its needs and will still ask myself was never happy?
a doubt have had, and now only goes to sleep, if
a doubt 'has had little or often times, will be sufficient
survive himself ... ?

But then I realize that probably is a thought

He has so much time and the luxury of wasting:
I can not say or do not know at all if it is worse,
on balance, his loneliness or mine. ..

and then one day we will say: "But if he was so good ..."
will have the marble with the 'angel breaks the chains with his
save some money' because you never know,
a bit 'out of habit: "yeah, I'm always ready to trouble." We'll see Mogi
faces, voices from the smiles off:
"Pleasure", "Mio", "I am glad," "You were his relatives?"
and gradually go away from our minds full:
will remain only a 'just remember that feeling ...

Orange Juice In The Blender

poor Martin ...


A Benedetto Val di Sanbro all knew her as "Bocca di rosa", Martina Fiorucci, a fair fifty Tuscan climb from his homeland to pursue his dream of love with Franco Bassani, a shyster outlandish, as good as its beak, which posed as a necessary condition for the marriage went through, to move close to his mother, the widow Pescatore. But like every dream of love, even to Liliana was wrecked in an inevitable divorce. Too different from her husband that his wife preferred the game, and chose to make love an evening with friends to get drunk and fill the belly of each leccornia.Martina, however, suffered a cowherd, a woman was considered romantic and passionate, devoted solely to her man, and dreamed of escape as soon as possible from the oppressive life that every day more marked in the face of the inexorable passing of time. He decided, well, change in dress, makeup, the attitude of men towards them. No more faithful and gently subdued, but aggressive and conscientious of his being a femme fatale. Since then short Martina giving free rein to instinct that her husband had repressed in a shabby living as a couple.
obtain a divorce, Liliana, who was a teacher of Classics Institute Scientific Acireale, began by watching his guys with other eye, and to take part in moments of recreation:
-Francis, tell me '... you've got a girlfriend? No, Madam
Fiorucci ... I still feel for these little things ...
-I do not think you know ... Already a little man! The blackish beard, hair on his chest ... Who knows how many girls, and not just run after you.
-Lady Fiorucci ... I feel ... embarrassed ...
-O I'm sorry Frank, it was only to stimulate a bit '.
And so he was saying more or less to all pupils, in order to seduce them. But the boys seemed to ignore the desires of the woman, to the point that Martin, came home, put out his despair in a bath of tears and swallowing antidepressant pills.
Gino came to his aid, just one of those students to whom she had not made the "short". Gino was sixteen years old, dark hair, a po'grassoccio, and with a more hip than the other, which gave her a quid of walking animal. He knew very well of unspoken desires of the rest of the school-teacher was not discussed else-and it was as besotted by the opportunity to have sex with a woman so mature.
-Prof ... but it's true ... who is divorced?
Yes, Gino ... Love stories do not always go as expected ...
-E ... I know something ... Already
-Gino? Did you have a girlfriend?
Yes Prof. .. but he left after a short time ... In fact
Gino had never had a girlfriend, and his goal was to capture the attention and interest of Martina, increasingly surprised by the entrepreneurship of the young. It was therefore determined that it would be seen over the weekend, a woman's house. Gino was enthusiastic already dreaming of the moment when he realized his dream of a deflowered adulta.Martina, by contrast, was excited by the idea of \u200b\u200bpleasure to a boy so young. Now is the fateful day, the woman dressed in a way that leaves his mouth open from the entrance Gino: top as a teenager that emphasized her breasts up and thriving, a jeans skirt that reached just above the knee, fishnet stockings, and the scent of Chanel No 5. The boy, dressed in a suit of little appeal, came in with heart pounding in his head and thoughts of all kinds. He sat down for dinner, Liliana was a very good cook-and stared into the eyes of women. -What have you
Gino? I see a po'turbato?
-No ... no ... I have nothing ...
Not even had time to tell the lie, that he fell over on him chicken soup that Martha had prepared.
-What have you been doing darling? Come here ... you clean ... Since then
Gino was no longer a virgin. Martina was so good at doing everything slowly that the boy did not notice even the one who actually had done.
Soon after, the two parted, promising each other to meet again at the end of each week.
Earlier Monday, the school did not merely talk about the prof. Seductress and the boy sprontato. Gino, in fact, had not been able to keep that secret, and had spilled classmates, now interested in repeating the exploits of the boy. By now all the young people of 4 ° C wanted to go to bed with Martin.
This is not sorry to anyone: Martina established shifts for every guy who wanted to spend a special evening with her, and pupils could boast of having the teacher more thrust Italy.
Bocca di Rosa, a woman who still cries when no one sees it.

Butalb-apap-caff Snorting

transparency ...


What All this serves

my life I walk, step by step? I look

observe it, I scan through the
the past, sipping
, facts and events, tasting again

joys, sorrows

... and disappointment.
squinting
Up to make the view more acute
... then I open them up
this reality, my question on this


that nobody listens to anybody ... perceives
but from the look that shines like the color of
.

93 Mustang Speaker Box

THE TIME ....


was a ritual.
Every Sunday afternoon the boys came together after a week maybe boring and not very eventful. Then, even on the last Sunday of the month, when the shops were open, had lunch together.
Angelo put his house available. All lived in the same neighborhood, but his apartment was central, or perhaps he was more willing to act as a "landlord", with his house on the ground floor: very few stairs, no elevator, a spacious kitchen / dining room, warm and sunny the round table for the event on Sunday.
They made their game of rummy and had fun, but when the winter sun was not the precious and out, the boys liked to wander around and observe the beautiful women and maybe dream about certain little things. Angelo did not
never miss them tea with biscuits, was a small pause and an excuse to talk about the events of the week.
Skip the Sunday ritual was rare and when this happened it was always for health reasons, simply because the boys had eighty or a few more, just as my Father.
Then I spent the night at 19, with my Panda and I was by taxi. When I entered I could see them beaming and have fun, sometimes someone complained about the inattention of the companion game to the cards and they looked annoyed, but funny. All
clothes, the beard made the perfect hair, and the ever Profumo.
The infirmities of age and some bad purchases, were in abundance and always increasing, but the will to live that game that was not limited only to the "Rummy" went beyond the elevation morning, medicines, and the breakfast postponed if the mirror image that did not, c ' was always the possibility of cheating with a few tricks over time, with the will to live and still like each other.
I love to call them "boys" and still keep going to take them on Sunday evening, and filled my heart when I hear them make fun about their difficulties to get in and out of my Panda, but perceive it 'fun that is not so far from that of a boy on his first Sunday outings, at the bottom is only a matter mobility, but it is: Life.
people who continue their journey alone, in the sense that it no longer next to his partner in life, but who still struggle to rediscover that little piece of heaven every morning, sometimes black sometimes pastel, until the end of the match one that is played once.