let go

in the backyard of my ship
there’s a tiny wooden elf
pretty confident and hip,
all immersing in itself

little elf, we’ve met before
maybe previous of lives
i remember wooden door
he who enters it survives

just like Hatter, equal mad,
i was drinking up the jars,
overthinking all i had,
faintly dreaming of the stars

you were wise, i dare to guess,
very likely to let go,
not attached to emptiness,
holding strings of puppet show

teeny tiny puppet men,
all precisely at your hand
are you sure you really can
make them work at your command

sails need mending, men will work,
knots of real human veins
dressed up well to build a cirque
heavens know what it contains

i’ve the scissors, you shall know,
one, two, three, and strings will rip
each of them deserves to go
you deserve to get some sleep

life

there comes a day we mostly fear,
the one that’s dreadful and unclear,
one day we finish to exist – 
that’s on the list

when inevitably it comes
there’ll be no orchestra and drums,
and we’re not sure of afterlife, 
if we survive

so when we end up, will there be
someone who cares to disagree
that all we’ve done will disappear,
noone to hear?

will they be framing our halls
will they hang posters on the walls 
and a museum of our past
be there to last?

or will the wallpapers be torn,
demolished walls to never mourn
and turned in office blocks instead,
when we’ll be dead?

when we hold time with bare hands,
it burns the skin, and skin expands, 
and we are able to contain
both past and pain

so through the bruises hope we can
preserve the memory of man,
of every soul who did the things
that touched the strings

and since it’s always not too late, 
we still can treasure and create,
so when we’re done, someone is there
to save and share 

after

he asks me if i know what’s next —
right after we are done.
if i am following the tracks
not walked by anyone
if i am picturing in mind
the afterlife of sound,
if i’m the one to seek and find,
or i’m already found

so i sit down to take my time
and find the proper words:
the path, i answer, is the dime
to feed the minds of nerds
as random as the choices get
the ones we daftly pick
sometimes you only have to le
your consequences speak

the mental hangover this time —
this one comes early, too
that’s when the walls you’ve quickly climbed
made sure you overdo
then comes a very silent spot,
a really tiny town,
a place to carefully unknot
your tools for melting down

this time it gets you well-prepared,
but you can choose again:
get back to what you haven’t said,
unfold, unhide, unchain,
so this is what he gets to hear:
the sound i really love
is when we’re canceling our fear
and all of the above

probably

the walls are cardboard, the floor is lava
and we are sitting in melting pond
behind the audience shouting bravo
producers waving a magic wand

il tempo cambia, the weather’s changing
and we are changing, umbrellas lost,
cars run on dirty, exhausted engines,
we clean them daily at any cost

the time is off on the large sundial:
the sun is hidden behind the clouds
we’re always running an extra mile
and end up judged by almighty crowds

so building shelters of guilt and sorrow,
attaching curtains of grief and hope,
and crossing fingers for bright tomorrow
outside our optical periscope

go on

with your fire extinguisher velcroed along,
with your armour strapped tight to your shoulder
who is starting a song,
who’s composing a song,
who is there by your side when you’re older

if you’ve only been hired to shut down the fires,
just to pack up the axes and matches,
who will help when you tire,
when you stand and admire
all the bruises, abysses and scratches

and the flames will go down. and the fires will cease,
and the music will play for the younger,
the indefinite peace
on condition of lease
will be never enough for their hunger

they may tie down your hands, they may silence your voice,
but they’ll never be able to cancel
every personal choice,
every right to rejoice,
your opinions, and paper, and pencil.

we do not kneel

if helplessness would be her music she’d be a composer
her wrinkles would form but a straight line you’re willing to touch
the rivers to swim through the universe empty and frozen
and coast lines are shattered too much

if craving for humankind would be a sport she’d be champion
but tracks would consist of pure turbulence, buckle your belt
the rides she was usually taking weren’t featuring ramping – 
they always demanded she knelt

this journey’s indeed never meant or expected to please her:
the salmons who do dare to leap necessarily drown
there’s constantly next little gravel that’s seldom been easy
that’s always been taking her down

this hanging and holding to air, all this hovering, floating
by threads that are strong, as if someone is holding her tight,
have nevertheless made her think that her powerful coating
is made of mature chrysolite 

Ollie

Ollie walks on azulejos, 
tiles are cutting into toes
five past lives seem but an echo
of the current one he chose
planet full of guns and powder
often deadly, seldom shine
travellers becoming louder,
canned in their precious brine

clay is colorful but hurting
under Ollie’s bare feet
long ago he stopped converting
into everything he did
world of passing decorations, 
neverending future props
based on painful expectations
of events tomorrow drops

Ollie walks on nails and ashes,
neatly shattered porcelain
fragments crack and axis crashes,
washed by fantasy and rain
this is everything but real,
playgrounds being oversize
if he falls from ferris wheel,
time has come to customize 

honeytrip diaries

Vouliagmeni lake has waters as warm as milk
mostly keeps it for gods, the ones who are still within
emerald green and soft, like butter and rum and silk,
down from the mountaintop pours gold like it’s always been

Athens mixes aromas: coffee, tobacco, wood
one they are carving from their icons and souvenirs
up on its seven hills, if you ever understood,
tries to connect you back, encourages you and hears

lions with human hands and horses with human eyes
would you heal us from grief for everything that we’ve lost
are you ready to see the miracles, asks the guide,
shows how imagination has come at a higher cost

Aegina island gives the traveler serpentine
daughter of Zeus watches, deciding if you belong
temples on mountaintops are open, and bottom line:
strongest will ring a bell which has been there all along

Peloponnese is different: the mainland demands its toll
somewhere between the groves of cotton and olive trees
you’ll find a secret cave that always contained it all:
humans and cattle sheds along with the seaside breeze

you only have to climb: go under, inside, above
you only have to wish: discover, explore, create
turning the earth to flowers is ultimate sign of love,
finally reaching this country has always been fate

open

even in the darkest hour 
search for light within
even if you lack the powers, 
even if your skin
itches deep from scars and bruises, 
radiates from heat,
finding reasons not excuses
makes yourself complete

buildings aren’t really haunted – 
people really are
wandering their minds unwanted
opens them ajar
out they come, their ghosts and creatures,
out it comes, their fear
left alone their priests and teachers,
destiny unclear

wander far from metro stations, 
see how life is raw
you don’t need clarifications,
coming for the show
noone’s warned you’re curtain-raiser,
hero of the scene
you’re the sharpener, not razor,
you have always been 

Janet

Janet operates on some fuel – 
there’s a canister on her table
world around her might seem too cruel,
so she’s drinking it to feel stable

colored pink with outlandish flowers – 
Janet painted them to count years
lost in contracts and after-hours
and unsatisfied, it appears

got a linen dress from an island,
it began when she started travels
counting silently every mile, and
watching pathway as it unravels 

sending telegrams like it’s olden,
shortens words as if each one’s pricy
watching sunsets, exclusive, golden,
choosing dinners, exotic, spicy

and believing in strange conclusion:
nothing’s useless on freaking planet
even canister’s vague illusion
is enough to support a Janet