Teoria dei caffè

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Un caffè
caposaldo, punto di partenza alla fine
del pasto magari con la pasta. E le verdure. A posto?

Du’ affè.
L’aspirazione che arriva anche se tarda
e mastica un po’ che ispirazione non manca.

Treccaffè
cosí, cattivo, duro. Dispari
per non disperare, e la speranza si risveglia.

Quattraffè:
Vedi due, ma al doppio.
Doppia forza doppi fondi
doppiaggio lasciato a mezzo.

E cinq se’ sett via, in aggiunta alla serie
già in lizza, in tazza ristretta anche se accozza
– tanto poi l’abbozza.

Che la teoretica bozza per ora si ferma, qua,
in goccia di arrivo colata dal bordo
– che amarezza – segnando il punto fine. Per l’appunto.

a Valentina Ferrari e il gruppo Caffellatte
con scuse a Benigni

Night shuffle

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Play.

I did not mean to walk your streets tonight, but I did. I walked past your defences, your missing kind, your barely hidden happiness, as someone held me and helped me up.

Skip.

Walls of colour, from A to H, spread themselves before me, leading to hues of pink, gold, oxidized bronze. Your trees hold twinkling fruits, and I still don’t know how to be alone.

Skip.

No silver, no wick, no weaving. The flint is still there, stubborn and content. Glint of glass walls further to one side, no one reading, seasons change, people fall, hearts beat.

Skip.

Is there something I should know? Hall after hall you still keep secrets, even in the open, hardly hidden, standing tall in stone and tar. Bridges need crossing.

Skip.

Before the other side, some of your plainness shows, and still manages to pluck, softly, strings that had settled, gently. You’re the lucky one, you caused it.

Skip.

Orion, inevitably on your sky. Fairy lights, also inevitably, on your skyline. Friends intermittently on your roads, this road. Some have come home, some on your back.

Skip.

It’s getting cold. I’m getting cold. Walk with me some more, first. A ghost above me, pasts beside me, a door just ahead. Am I ever coming back for you..?

…skip.

(Bonus track: No words left after all that. Just step forward, right or wrong foot, doesn’t matter. Time to walk again. Time to set out and find the next one. I might be back.)

Fossil Fool

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In the age of the son of Dick
dinosaurs roamed the earth again
funneled and shovelled into rooms of steel and of brick,
grooming in new taxes, fees and contributions
looming over tracks of grey grey grey…

In the age of the son of Dick
Shellfishness was on the rise
oil say – yeah, back to back
to the sound of beating drums
a black hum rising from
your interests – only green concern
is what you make when you burn.

In the age of the son of Dick
we fly our flags with pride
wear our badges, sound our voices
we have nothing to hide, Dave
and it’s not just ‘save the planet’:
We cry divest, divest, divest!
Do not feign interest, Dave
you’ve turned to fossil,
you look like a fool.
The solution? Divest.
Because we won’t rest tonight
we won’t rest tomorrow
we will burrow into your grey
with our orange – and we have no rhyme
but plenty of reasons.
We’re here to stay as long as we have to
as long as it takes, Dave,
until you say – we do different.

Partially improvised piece in occasion of the UEA Fossil Free 26-hour occupation. Read more about it here.

Ghostwriters

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They were huddled in the same room, as if in a crooked nest, some scribbling away, some, admittedly, were typing on small keyboards. At seemingly regular intervals, they would silently squabble as if their worlds mattered more than any of the others. It was a peculiar circle, with more sharp angles than you might envisage – you could feel the tingling tension zig-zagging around the table. There were some lights, but their warmth felt unsure, tentative, even scared of shining too bright, as the shadows would only grow deeper as a result. The trickling noise of tapping on the tables, the clicking of pens, keyboards, thin fingers scuttling across the surfaces, was only interrupted – almost as if on a loop – by a peculiar but all too familiar moan. It would hang in the air for a handful of seconds, haunting all present company, lingering just enough to become uncomfortable, only to slowly dissipate into the incessant scritching on paper, the constant clicking sound of keys.

No eyes looked up, no contact made between the figures in the circle, no movement other than what required for the production of more work, more words, more paper, more screens, more, more, more. Lines building upon lines, stories stacked up precariously and vanishing to other rooms, to other – much wider, much louder, much livelier – worlds.

 

Outside the building, in the growing chill of that autumn night, people passed by, entirely oblivious to the figures inside. It was as if they weren’t really there after all.

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140story – Transcontinental

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140story is still running, terribly strong for a tiny Twitter thing. Give them some love!

Werepoets

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Original Italian by Alessandra Racca (1979-), from Bastarde Senza Gloria.

Beware the bad poets
they don’t just come at night
but roam about
whipping out their lines by day
dumb and overbearing
if you do not turn your ears away
they slither into your skulls
filling them with sickly sweet scents
they’ll make you hurl
but your victim’s face
stunned
will smile:
a smile of kindness
lax, fed up
and with no trace of sincerity.

Better a poet who’s bad
than a bad poet.

140story – Tryptich

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Story is complete, and summer has definitely gone.

Emissaries

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Towards fresh flowing waters
they linked their paths,
channelling the music
the hues and flavours
of a crowd winding its way

with measure and care
around rise and falls of a score
towards a crossroads on the track
stepped across the borders.

They did not change that much
they did not stay the same, either.
They could not stay, so left
goodbyes rolling off the tongue
with ease, at last.

BCLT Summer School – Day 5

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The final workshop was given by Sharlene Teo, who delved into psycho-geography, and her own variation: psychic geography. We were asked to describe a room that was familiar to us, lingering on details, even the smallest, if needed.

1. If I sit down at its centre, I can take in all of its corners. The four major ones – the cornerstones, the foundations – and the minor ones, the ones that follow the furniture, the kitchen area, the wardrobe, my eyes. Circling around them, books populate the room, shelves pine for more or for fewer, groan with content. Keep turning and the bed lies down, to one side, covering its own space, in its own time. Turn a little more to find the washing line, clothes hanging, suspended, moisture gently rising as they dry. Lie back, and the ceiling stares at you, blankly.

We were then asked to describe a ‘public’ person, or character, in enough detail for them to be recognisable by other readers. My choice, surprising no one, fell on Eddie Izzard.

2. He has the kind of eyes that show the weird, wonderful, buzzing creativity behind them, rimmed with eye-liner, or eye-shadow, or mascara, calculated and meticulous. He might be wearing lipstick, he might not. That doesn’t really matter. But if he is, it might appear amid a three-day beard, bristled with white and blond and brown – light brown. Or maybe not. He does wear a shirt, and a suit and tailcoats from the jacket, points touching an umbrella as he stands triumphant, ego shining bright, spotlight not needed. Unless he’s wearing a dress, and the sparkles, the glitter, the sequins catch the lights on stage. And that’s when smiles. Mocking. Knowing.

We swapped the result of the first exercise with other participants, and wrote the character into the new setting we now had. Oh dear.

3. …my heels just got stuck. eeeeeeeeeeeh-yes. Anyway: HAMMERS. Let me talk about hammers. You don’t want to talk about hammers? You just want to get hammered? Well whatever floats your boat I suppose. Do you think Noah used hammers when he built his boat? the Ark, I mean? and what if he made it out of perspex, like a see-through boat, to watch all the evil people and animals drown and you can point and laugh and then you’d be evil too, actually… but yes, and god, who is still James Mason, would be up there going craaaaazy:
‘No no, stop laughing or I’ll have to push you off the boat. Noah? Noah, make them stop laughing or just – Jesus?’ ‘ Yes dad?’ ‘I need a holiday.’ ‘ Aren’t all days a holiday for us, dad?’ ‘…yes, well played.’
But yes, anyway – gardening.