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people hear about are all right. So it is hard to understand how the world goes wrong, if each of us is right, logic dictates that we are all right. But no, because to pay attention to the speeches of people there's always that guy or that there (those ones there or there) they are wrong bad, you do not know how to make them understand that we tried but like talking the wall, that one there or that guy (those ones there or there) are sunk, never change. And we hear talk that the person is right, we can only nod in agreement and say that yes, that's it , but inside ourselves we think that even the person who speaks and it considers it is wrong to act or think that way, that if we found ourselves in his situation and act differently in a few minutes to solve the catch and bring back that guy or that there (those ones there or there) - which are clearly wrong - the reason. And short is good Charles, not to give anyone confidence.

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Thoughts Poetry Christmas

Well, for a number of reasons I was asked to write a poem about Christmas. I admit, in all honesty, the thing is unsettling. There and then I said: Well, okay, yes, yes, well, I'll write a poem about Christmas. But I felt a certain degree of perplexity. Of course, I never thought of writing a poem about Christmas. I mean, I once wrote a story about Christmas set on Christmas day in horse racing agency, then I have some 'changed, rewritten and finally Christmas was gone. So you could say that I have never written anything on Christmas. No, once I rewrote a play for an essay of some kids, the teacher tells me here, there would be this story, on Christmas, it should be staged. I figured, okay, do it, yes yes, good. Then I read it. Dickens could be, there are also movies with J. Carry. But it was Guareschi, and, well, you should read to understand. The fact is that the first star comet, the first "magic" of Christmas m'è got seasick, so I rewrote the whole stuff with a revolutionary ants, crows ... bah well, maybe there was still something of the story, but still say that it was more a tale of Christmas with Christmas.
So now I'm there with white paper, after I write the mail with black and white "waiting for your text. That is, the poem about Christmas.
Now, I wonder, is there a more difficult issue that a poem of Christmas? What if you speak the spleen of the city, consumerism, panettone, you're granted. If you talk about what you cook your grandmother, the family meeting, with the gifts you in three years, are rhetorical. If you talk about the cold, snow the night, you're naive. If you talk about the religious theme ... and how do you talk about the religious theme in a poem starting from Christmas to Christmas? E ' all very complicated. Then a flash: I remember years ago bought a book by Brodsky titled "Poems of Christmas." And I remember clearly that he had never read so much on the ground, in fact, that there were "poems of Christmas," which is pretty bumper, at least for me, in hindsight. However, one would say, maybe try to read a poem Brodkij Christmas, why not, it could also help find a way ... and I find these verses, which are only the beginning of a longer poem, and I say, though, Broskij, he has done it to write poetry for Christmas.

The second Christmas on the shore of Pontus
that is never frozen.
The star of the Magi on the fence of the port. I can not say

unable to live without you - as I live.
As is evident from this page.
exist: gulp my beer, daub
leaves, and grass, trample.

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Here there would be a free post ... We

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I was Leopardi and you were the hedge ...

Edouard Leve

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maddormentavo (or lovers Matarazzo)

Maddormentavo all.
purred like a coffee undecided.
Maddormentavo night, needless to say, but such a speed that the bed partners - were sleeping in so many at the time, shift work, but I was there forever, workaholic pillow - came to check I was still alive.
Maddormentavo in class, say a small thing, but in the front row facing the professor, who could not help but stop the lesson.
Maddormentavo train to the last station - not mine - to the last stop on the bus, drive all the way, were twists and turns or highway.
Maddormentavo in line at the post office, the grocer, the dentist during the filling, in the church confessional, in the changing rooms of clothes shops, the beach sand and sea to sea. Maddormentavo standing on the grass, kneeling, squatting, sitting with a trickle of drool after the last gasp of pleasure, having made the wrong question.
Maddormentavo during the day of reckoning.

"Sleep chiossai matarazzu of u," he said. And I like to be told - is that the mattress Novara dialect is anything but static: I said, dreams and go.

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Because if not a desire which has the others must try to convince him? Not which has the desire, no? Basta. Leave him alone.

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# 27

This week the number of things that worry me has risen to 15. Two more than the last update. As you try, are unable to capture photos in the intensity objective of my sink. And I think that reading glasses are taking a decidedly hostile attitude. You really must do something! Need I remind you that the door handle of my room started to spin alone? I want a hamburger, and the complete set of Star Wars characters with puppets made of Lego. Then you can move along. (Until the next advice on how to adopt new avatar as the image of my Facebook).

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post it and if thou hast

and if thou hast a friend - even one - with whom lose the afternoon wandering around any city that you care about the job that bores you that you care about politics and government that goes to the dogs what do you care of the newspaper headlines and television garbage that sends movies beautiful night at three. I said, if thou hast this friend, you can spend the time poking fun at passers-by or watching the women go home at night, put your ass in the bar and talk doorstep two hours of film Tarkowsky anyone who does not shit So you like.

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Tomorrow I leave

round While I thought that everything is in rhythm and I was wondering if the world is music or noise, and I thought about how many words and rhythm was mute my stride in the leaves, and I thought, from a bush down the wind released a souvenir of the old sun, it goes like this:

a shadow land of mint ice
passes but my mother does not see me
two come here with me is silent
place three or four shakes for the foot race
five months of thorns
six rest stops gasp gasp crumpled
six is \u200b\u200bstill too early afternoon
know that I was expecting six seven eight nine ten
not you turn
ten clips
pigtails for my fingers to call the honey flies
knees red bruises war
eleven floors full of balconies
tamped earth under the shadow of an evergreen
twelve thirteen fear screams
steps as the sun burns
'ttordici and Patch and Patch and Patch
fifteen eighteen sediciassette
aspect aspect aspect aspect
are still seventy-end count
from here I see you face pencil
I'm leaving tomorrow
sea fish travel from here I see you taking down a grass
legs are jumping out of the wall is
is home to touch me touch you
nobody beats me
free all free all free all
nobody beats me no ...

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Three novels in six rows

Given the presence of a piano, Brest police decided that the meetings were not the candidate's character Barde Artigues election. Violations. Fine.

***

Yesterday at Rouen Mr. Colombe was killed by a pistol shot. Last March his wife had him fired three. The two were waiting for a divorce.

***

Homeless no job, Louis Lamarre, however, had some money in your pocket. E 'entered a grocery store in Saint-Denis, bought a liter of oil, and if it is drunk.

(Félix Fénéon, Novels in three lines , Adelphi)

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The director was in despair. He had received a letter from a boy who was desperate and wanted to kill himself, and the director did not know what to do, "What I say to this? We all want to kill us, at eighteen !"... and we did so with his head, all a bit 'sad, but Castelli, who has been a bit pensive' and then it seemed that he remembered and said: "Not me, I wanted to kill others."

(Tiziano Sclavi, Labels shirts )

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It said The Lion and the Cronopio

A Cronopio goes to the desert and runs into a lion, and among them is held the following dialogue: Do you eat
Leone .
Cronopio ( addoloratissimo but with dignity ) All right.
Leone Ah, no. Do not begin to do the martyr. Put yourself to cry or struggle. The choice is yours. Otherwise, how can I eat? Come on, I'm waiting. You do not say anything? The
Cronopio says nothing, and the lion is puzzled, until he gets an idea.
Leone as well that I was stuck a pin in his left hand that gives me a lot of boredom. Toglimela and forgive you. The
Cronopio removes the plug and the lion goes away muttering crossly. Thanks, Androcles.


( Stories cronopios and famas , J. Cortazar, trans. Flaviarosa Nicola Rossini)

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As Dorothy Spaventapassere

After greeting his friends Munchkins (but little during dinner, he had seen sucking the 'a the other thing that remotely resembled a lemon) Dorothy resumed his journey on a road with many murals glorifying rappers fallen in battle. After walking a Fracci, decided svaccarsi a bit 'in the grass and approached the fence that bordered the road, beyond which lay an abandoned soccer field. Out in the field - who knows why - there was a Spaventapassere impaled on a pole that was wailing loudly.
Dorothy, still giddy from the wine that had almost forced to guzzle down his throat, began to observe the Spaventapassere absorbed. It was ugly, ugly. He had acne, stringy hair and rotten teeth. He wore a checkered flannel shirt (Like the good old days of grunge) and pink pants short in the calf showing sponge tennis socks under a pair of gray loafers. Dorothy watched curiously
While the strange writhing specimen remains in the same place, was surprised to see that from time to time a volcanic pimples that besieged the face of Spaventapassere swelled and exploded himself, releasing a greenish liquid that dripped on filament covering it smelly. In addition, the type the snot running down his nose and ended up directly in the mouth, as the VATS had their hands tied behind his back.
When he realized that he looked at her, the girl approached him to observe it better.
- Oh, then? - Spaventapassere said the voice a bit 'proven.
- Did you speak? - Asked the astonished girl.
- Here we have Einstein's daughter! - Spaventapassere the sarcastic comment.
- How are you? - Asked the little girl, who had been educated by the nuns to be more educated as a nun.
- Tell me, dear, how you want to be with a pole stuck up your ass? - Said with a smile Spaventapassere the more accommodating as possible.
- Do not want to get off? - Asked Dorothy.
- Second you?! -
Spaventapassere From the tone of despair, he sensed that Dorothy had to help him. Not without difficulty he managed to pull the puppet from the pole: he was full of secretions, so that pollute the clean dress.
- Mamma mia - sighed he, as soon as the soles of moccasins resting on the ground. - Now I'm back a bit 'more human. If I had not even hemorrhoids ... -
Then, who became more gentle, he turned to the girl: - Who are you? And where do you go? And what are you doing Friday night? Thou hast to smoke?
The little girl promptly replied: - MichiamoDorothyedevoandareinquelpostoadincontrarequeltalemisembrasichi amiilmagodiOzzy ch and miaiuteràafarmitornareacasasanaesalva.
- What?! - Dorothy
repeated more slowly.
- Ozzy? - Asked the Spaventapassere. - The Ozzy of Black Sabbath? -
- Oh I do not know this, - said Dorothy melancholy. - I only know that he is a very powerful man. -
- I do not know about you - did that with all the forces holding a mighty fart because basically it was always in the presence of a little girl.
- Why did not you running away from me in horror? - He asked, genuinely curious.
- At school I was taught to have compassion for all. -
- Well, you know, I'm a Spaventapassere. Just a fluke I can see - even a pussy like you - usually disappears now ... -
- make me a great pity - she said with all sincerity child. The
Spaventapassere sent down the bitter pill and merely ask: - Do you think if I were with you in that place where you're going, Ozzy also solve some of my problems? Not that I do have a particular need, but you know ... -
- just do not know, - said Dorothy, - but also come with me if you like. If Ozzy will not give you what you need, you will certainly not become any worse.
Draft plague of shit, he thought it Spaventapassere. But she put her hands in his pockets and said no more.

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saved the ill-concealed (ie part of the first post)

I have an ill-concealed that from the root the neck, and I feel like just waking up from a hangover of red wine at low cost. I
ill-concealed, play better and I feel the pain that starts from mid-back, as if I had raised the heart of the town - which is still low and leaves them firmly attached herself to the ground. I
ill-concealed, I say, but now I feel that part of the coccyx as if I had taken a culata on the ground, cock, slipped on the ice. I
ill-concealed, and comes from the knees, from plants to heavy foot, shoulder, stomach, abdomen and stomach.

more I try to describe it, the more I hear, the more it expands, squeaks, body changes shape and size, it becomes acute, pulsating, throbbing, constant, oppressive.
Now he writes that, by my hand.
looked at the screen with his eyes half closed, the pain of needles with eyes: the ill-concealed now is so strong to want to sign, but I have to find the final because he has no fantasy, you know just hurt.

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headache (ie the birth of the first post)

I have a headache that starts from the root of the neck, and I feel like just waking up from a hangover of red wine at low cost. I
maldistesta, listen better and I feel the pain that starts from mid-back, as if I had raised the heart of the town - which is still low and leaves them firmly attached herself to the ground.
I have headaches, I say, but now I feel that part of the coccyx as if I had taken a culata on the ground, cock, slipped on the ice.
I have headaches, and comes from the knees, from plants to heavy foot, shoulder, stomach, abdomen and stomach.

more I try to describe it, the more I hear, the more it expands, squeaks, body changes shape and size, it becomes acute, pulsating, throbbing, constant, oppressive.
Now he writes that, by my hand.
looked at the screen with his eyes half-closed, for the pain to the eyes of needles: a headache right now is so strong to want to sign, but I have to find the final because he has no fantasy, you know just hurt.