Massimiliano Martines

con me stesso

traduzione di Taddeo Roccasalda

With myself.

This week I’ve dwelled
in a cyber film, commercial – so they say –
in long street tracks
under the sun, in the rain,
under ashes of city smog
under walkman headphones
in town centre’s pubs among beers and snacks

This week I’ve disconnected
the walkman headphones to hear voices
I’ve met strangers on the road
I’ve taken my eyes off in those
of strangers, my voice in the voice of strangers
I’ve crapped in public baths
crouched as a bird on a beam
I’ve stared eagerly at tits, bums and cocks
I’ve done the HIV test in a ward
I’ve fucked commè Massimiliano in the morning
I’ve eaten a bowl of french soup
prepared just for me, the fear of death,
of love, of becoming fat
I’ve gone to a meeting for different reasons
wanted to cry and disown me
I’ve read Nietzsche and failed the conjugation of a verb

This week I’ve dwelt
in the embrace of a friend
in the weariness of the back
in the voice of the girl I’m missing
in the song sung in the room
in the bad breath and swollen eyes
in the house I haven’t got and I’m escaping
in the decisions I’m going to take
in the real friends and in my parents
in my brothers and perhaps in my children.

 

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