I found a story written during a frenzied night, dark and silent place where I saw an adventure-important to the death of my mother-between waking and sleep and not knowing what ancorami I began to beat letters words and phrases that always humbly try to describe graphic images elusive. è passato il tempo necessario ad allontanare da me quel momento. in quella sequenza di lettere non vedo più nulla. o quasi. ho preferito non usare la moderata interpunzione della "virgola" considerandola vezzo del pensiero dello scrivente che ti vuol far percepire la pausa di senso. al delirio di ciò nulla fotte.
È febbre. È notte. L’uomo di creta si sente più vicino alla pietra che scalda l’inferno. È un inferno solingo cintato la pietra incastonata nel primo sogno fatto in un tempo non qui.
è piccola e taglia è pesante come mille lune in un sacco di tela…
padre la vedi?
Son nel tuo letto c’è il sole io posso
sleep ... But here is the man of clay now. Unfinished?
Hello my king ...
With eyes wide to look everywhere but not in the bottom of the well in towards the stone and the ice slides and soul wanders a wall a picture ... a picture
crying ... good morning My ...
his years spent precious books stacked on the table ever read. spits on the cover and rubs his hands are soft your fingers are broken.
Hello my prince ...
a cough out there from prison. A child is not happy unless he has come ...
run run away down the stone fucking
in me ... A book that falls volumes that are shaking. Shapes around the bed does not know how they say do not move do not cry ... ... ...
book a July afternoon in a particular day in the chaos of pages stained with tears, but here's the anniversary of the birth of her one of the many one of the few that she brings a happy child who comes here ... not now but the belly beating drums not here beyond
there is none? You can go you can go out?
is the first afternoon the daemons are running on a Vespa. Tel. -Tell me? - The man wrote. His mother. -Bring me that thing to measure the pressure that your sister gave you ... you've got you? - the man with the blades of grass in his mouth. The demons go with the red of your blood. -Yes, I do not know, not here, you need immediately. " The mother of the man with a face full of grass and stones. - But no ... you know I do not know ... maybe I put a little '... I do not know if you have time ... more later - but
over her ... where is the time
man of clay with blood grass and stones. And arrival in a little '
but over time she
where you're sure everything goes well, you? Otherwise I'll be right ... right? Safe? The nephew is there? Good, good. See you later. " The human clay flakes dissolve the stones in the eyes the grass between his teeth. The man is deaf, lost her clay is deaf wins its stones are the teeth that dance in the blood where his mouth? Two hours a silence now knows no time.
The mother has always spoken his language ... now mute because the clay absorbs a stink about anything a thud, the cradle in the books ...
far beyond that now awaits the blood speaks to you the blood. Two hours now ... a phone. Written words. Ports wounded. Bones them sound drums. The words say the words are not silent. Her niece, she's good, he called at an hour ... two hours .. what the fuck your legs do not hear her voice above her
but where is the time ...
the man with the shoes of lead. -Nephew, good, what's up? Hospital?
The blood coming out of the mouth the heart out of hand ...
but how? Who's there? Your mother? Sister
accept the heart out of hand ...
sister man with iron hands and the heart of wood. -Is there, doing exams ... everything ... has a quiet fear Executioner ... but ... but ... it's nothing I'll call you when we are in the department ... department-final. The man of clay is said to agree the grass in his ears in the blood lead mouth between his teeth the rocks in the heart in his feet. All’anagrafe. Le faccie vere. Le loro fotografie in mano. Si nasce si vive si muore in carta oleata due etti di vita un chilo di morte…
ma sopra di lei il tempo dov’è nel piombo di scarpe mangiate…
telefono. Le parole dicono. Sorella e il cuore di legno.
Sorella accolga i nostri cuori scappati di mano…
-il suo cuore…-
Sorella accolga il nostri cuori scappati di mano…
All’anagrafe. Le faccie vere. Le loro fotografie in mano. –il suo cuore ha…- l’uomo di creta non ha foto in mano. L’uomo di creta ha il cuore in mano che scappa. –il suo cuore ha cessato di battere…-
the heart continues to beat you ... sister runs away from hand ... anagrafe their faces on earth his heart in my hand an hour ... two hours ... silence ...
not beat the man fails to grasp the heart that little funky heart escaping. Not his. The man with the heart of clay rocks of grass shoes of blood does not say
clang of photos of faces flying fleeing ...
expected to return from the belly of the woman dew. The smiling face belly laughs. The man from the tears of dew - and ... - belly laughs face dew.
Hospital. Green walls. Corridors intestines in the abdomen of the human machine. Sister. Brother. A body lying escaping by-case basis.
Our Father welcome our hearts run away from home ...
the picture the face of a man who slams the door in the hallways and intestines that bed that body-wheels ... tomorrow ... the ring ... it's your mother? Condoglia ... - the body wheels. A room. An uncle. A doctor. A sister goes. A doctor. -We are sorry it happened suddenly ... a very simple routine examination ... ... ... wants to proceed with an autopsy of ... ... .. if he is rightfully hers ... ...
autopsy
autobahn bikes with bunches of demons skulls that they strike the asphalt scraping teeth let go ... ... let us weep bones
go ... the man of dried clay. -No-. Corridors intestines reject rags of flesh. The man of clay that is silent in the sun is out in July. The son, the fiery blonde marble arrives. The arms of the smell of wood boat.
Son our welcome our hearts torn by the wind ...
dew and tears the arms secure.
crying nails teeth ... it only changes the place of our son ... underpinning our eyes blind brand ...
home. That was also the home of the man of clay cracking. Wanders between odors deep game no more. Deaf mute staggers outside to inside does not sing through slips and stumbles on the rocks sull’erba vola sul piombo cade sul sangue. Non suo non più.
Madre pietra incastrata nel cuore che batte sul piombo…
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