Maurizio Leo

non suona più il jukebox nell’appartamento di allen

traduzione di Taddeo Roccasalda

7.

I’d like to write about poetry
‘cause I want to inspire
the world that allowed me to speak
I’d like to write about poetry
‘cause Walt Whitman opened
my mother’s heart
I’d like to write about poetry
‘cause Lautremont
said stop to writing
and to life
I’d like to write
but I can’t tonight
I’m suffering (‘cause Moscow, jews and war
and every inch speak about NIGHT)
And the others, mysterious
I’m ravished by the speed
and thin walls -
as book pages –
pass before the eyes
as shooting stars
Asphalt, they’ve evicted you
as a hunch-backed old woman
without relatives
I heard the president’s speech
on Neal’s grave
without any reason
whatever comes into your mind
in a minute or in a whole life
I’d like to write about poetry
‘cause the billions of the West
are not enough to the East
‘cause I’d like to love many women
but I’v got only one
and the conclusion is my suffering
but that’s enough, we could be done in
Here I speak ‘cause the great russian poets
killed themselves
and ‘cause someone must speak
and I climbed up the slope
where I saw the fate
behind Jack’s window
right there, where the indians
pray the dead
and smoke peyotl
and the dead will come back
I wondered why I wasn’t them
why about poetry
why Halloween without destination
And I follow closely the smallest details
of young and cheerful songs
and the first night
(and James D. fucked up by four wheels)
after having tortured the evening
(we drove at full speed – filled with beer-
listening to Waterboys’ songs at night)
we whispered
Dear Jesus in the space you give
In the skin of the metropolitan quietness
enlightened foolishness
of our friends & brothers
In Halifax - toils & suffering
don’t change the nations and the planet
in my deathbed
my breath is conscious
and white sheets wrap up
my ghost
- I deprived you of sleep -
when dustcarts at four
fuck the universe.

 

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