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poems of the kameleon

Poesie in ..Italiano .



life is an orange

Raindog blues.

The autumn storm is shredding the Greek sea,

As I throw a piece of drift wood, to a stray dog.

We play, wet, and stay with each other

Despite the cold bones in our head.

I thought I would come here alone, to shout,

My voice covered by the sound of angry thunder

Then this dog brought me the drift wood,

In the silence a bittersweet smile, as tall I stood.

All was finally, understood.


The Map.

You are my island, my piece of mind

When all around, there’s too much sound.

A silent isle made of time and space

On which there is, no city race.

Where skinny ballerinas dance with mad old men

And wisdom sleeps amongst old songs and elves.

You are my island out of the blue

There is no hope for me and you.

I lost your map, as soon as it found me.



As he put his fisherman’s hat on, I placed a bread in his strong hands,

Trembling deep inside, as the sea was very angry that day.

I knew better than ask him not to go out with his boat,

Our love had grown, in this silent way,

With my fingers looking for a pulse along my throat.

For his worship of the sea, would always be stronger than me,

The shores and all their wind, was where he had to be.

The stillness of time until I would see his boat reappear,

Praying the waves would not take him away from our pier.

He left and I cooked with the same old song in my head:



A bar.

Let me offer you a drink, a cigarette, a slice of my soul

You whom are sitting across me, in this smoky old bar.

Some nights last forever, and this is one of them,

I see you have the same blues in your eyes.

Sitting here both of us dwelling on where we went wrong,

Humming to the words of a tired old song.

We both have keys to empty hearts full of memories,

We have a smile, in a broken pocket made of time.

An angel and a star are looking at us from above the bar,

And blow silver hope on our pounding hearts ,

and weary scars. 


My deep blue sea...
through winters and snow,
through travels and sorrows,
I dreamed of you.
Your golden shores
and dangerous depths,
the taste of salt,
you, mother of my happiness.
Your rainbows of fish
and time locked in shells
the silence of Heaven,
the strong winds of Hell.
I can trust you
if I respect you
you clean my Soul
and give me control
I see a fisherman calling
I swim to his boat
he speaks of muses and storms..
of mermaids, of hidden gold.
One twin is playing in the sand
the other, like a fish, is swimming,
and when at night they sleep
they hold eachother's minds.




Find a happy place in your head

Despite the doubts, the pain and the dread.

Find that space where the children play

Have the courage to throw the key away.


Luna Park


Come with me to the land of distractions

Where Luna Park lights shine at night

Giants and midgets speak in tongues

and violins are played under the moonlight.


Come and sit by the glow of the gipsy fire

Listen to tales that have travelled so far

You might learn how truth can be inspired

By wondering souls and an old guitar.


Island of Silence


You are under my skin tonight,

As I swim in the fullest of Moons.

I swim naked in silver and gold

Holding a dark red rose between my teeth.


The lines on our hand were pencilled together

Then cut very gently by time and space

We have travelled the world separately

Then met by mistake by this magic sea.


I am walking in an empty street

Yet I feel you all around me

I am dancing alone in a big room

Yet you are singing for me


Like hot wind on the sand,

Like cold water in the sea

I wanted to give you my hand

In this place where time has been


Like a seagull and an eagle

Like the dry tree standing alone

I wanted to be your home

In this place where time has been.


It took me so long to find you

And still you do not have me

But the clock is ticking steady

Our time is coming you'll see.


I swim naked in silver and gold

Holding a dark red rose between my teeth.






I saw you standing on orange stairs

your eyes cutting through my soul

with your gangster dark airs

and your tired old sword.


You belong to worlds now past

built on honour and respect,

I know you do

   because I come from there too.


Only I know the chaos in my heart

and the fierce dogs barking in the night,

since the day I had to fly from that land

leaving those eyes, and your cold hand.


I shut my eyes on my soft pillow

breathing the lavender waves of sleep,

praying that one day you'll find the courage

to jump in the sea with me, very deep.



I'm shooting bullets in the dark


You walked in my life without knocking

In the anarchy of the cross roads

Right in between my sliding doors

In the empty field where I hid my desire

You walked in like the King of Ice and Fire.


They say life happens when you least expect it to

That destiny carves lifes like an old rusty knife.


So I climbed up on a dry cliff

and held my gun tight, in the night

shooting angry bullets to the stars

whilst the gipsies played guitar.


For you have broken all the rules

For I have known you all my life

Your mind is like a lonely diamond

A jewel I lost centuries ago.







If I have one foot on earth and one in the sky

It must be because it’s my only way to survive.

The spinning trail of my thoughts takes me up then down

As I sit in the fresh shadow, like a little old clown.


I locate challenges as I walk in the hectic streets,

And refuge in the clouds, when from humans I have to flee.

Perhaps you find it hard when I’m with you,

You whom conceives both of these worlds.


I need the sun as much as the moon

I need a knife, a fork, and a spoon.

    The depth of the sea as much as high mountains

The sand in the desert as much as cool fountains.


I call for loud laughter as much as locked away tears

To comprehend my sanctuary and all of my fears,

I like to sit in silence or dance freely to songs

Eternally separating what’s right from wrong.


Two twins live in me and they always will,

As I battle up and down the hills.

Which doesn’t mean they cannot make one:

They simply complete each other in all I have done.




Watching ToTo' baking his pizzas..
my sleeve resting on his flour,
forgetting minutes in the hour.
The wood and fire reassure me
in an old, funny way.
As he sprinkles toppings
the old man wants me to stay.
What side you fight on.
When you choose the game
the chess moves you make
remember your name
and your power to stay.
There is no east or west,
there has never been.
If you take up the fight
you're alone or you're lost.
For some nights you'll find,
when the lights are all off
if you don't master your mind
you'll be counting your loss.
There is no black or red
that will show you the road ahead
the only politic that matters



Walking stick.

I was sitting alone on a bench in the park

Waiting for the summer skies to go dark.

My soul was hanging between the trees and the stars

As my heart was beating steadily and fast.

I watched a child play with a dog

A couple rolling in the grass,

An old woman knitting and talking to God

A man dwelling over his past.

Humans gathered in a big garden

Strangers moving on surreal ground,

Each with his story, his home, his name

All so different yet all the same.

An old granddad suddenly appeared

Asked me whether he could sit next to me,

And as he sat and overcame his fear

I smiled feeling safe, free to be me.


He was playing the piano in the sea

His singular way to live a plea

His fingers creating notes,

Saluting the distant boats.

He was dressed in clouds and salty waves

As he called upon the gods and the mermaids,

I sat alone on the rocks and listened to the music

My heart into his.



It was a day I wanted to end

For life was taking away a friend,

but then I landed in a peculiar place

Found blue eyes sculpted in your face.


I thank Hermes that let us convene

A night of running away from time,

Hours like eagles in a lazy spleen

Knowing I can’t be yours, you can’t be mine.


Archibaldo our fight ends where it begins

As nostalgic and pure as an old violin

Yet not the fight to free this world

With the passion of our weapon: the word.



Closer than waves yet as far as Oceans

Strangers in a cold night of Spanish lights

Two souls dancing on impossible fire

Knowing that it will all end and begin tonight.


Your fever burning in words

The blood of poems round the globe.

After months in the deserts and the cold

You offered me calm on the battlefield.


How did you halt my trail of thoughts?

I shall never know.

As you shut the door behind you

I fell asleep with Vivaldi in my eyes

And my cat softly said : ‘goodbye’.


 sc 01.2005


Mykonos winter blues.

Mykonos is the soul-searching peace of a narrow path,

White and blinding as your steps loose their way.

It's the silence of the children when the sun is too high to play.

It's dry land embraced by deep blue sea.

It's rocks and horizons speaking to God.

It's Vasos' donkey full of flowers parked in front of the bakers,

One of the pelicans surrounded by strangers.

It's a fisherman sipping his coffee at five in the morning

A place that may heal the deepest of mourning.

It's time telling you to wait, with a meze on a white plate.

It's sitting on the sand under a full moon,

The isolation of a white and blue island as a tool.

It's watching a sunset by the lighthouse, as quiet as a mouse.

It's a spinning zebekiko whilst the men break the plates,

A place that no alphabet could translate,

A labyrinth in which most of us sleep until late.

It's your heart beating in sea, skies and earth,

The beginning of life through a new birth.

It's the harbour on a Sunday after the church,

A panairi lost in the hills with food, wine and dances.

It's shooting with Thassos pointing the guns at the stars,

It's the sanctuary that helped erase my scars.

It's a key left with trust on the door during the siesta,

The final knowledge that love cannot hurt you.

It's my little church hidden in silence sublime,

Full of faith, incense, candles and time.


Danny Boy.


You enjoyed yer pint of bitter

Believed you were Bob Dylan

Always skint and pissed as a skunk

Fits of zeal and no time to heal: you were drunk.


Amongst geeks and freaks

Zapping our way through alleyways

Brighton sawus dance, scream and laugh til late

I was 19, you 38.


You used to sing in empty roads

A brother, an uncle and often a toad

Pension day was breakfast and champagne

All your good resolutions in the ashtray.


Man behaving badly

Heartbeat pumping sadly

Yet as I watched you stray

I simply laughed, and stayed.


For you are a mate and a clown

Red was the colour we painted town

One day you’ll bomb 10, Drowning Street

And dance on those funny feet..





Bitter chills down my spine,

I might need some more wine!

Courage shall travel within me,

Guide this lost voice so it can whisper

And never scream.

Fury for survival, full of power

And very tribal.

I shall flee this world, and flay its absence.

I shall feed the hungry witnesses of injustice

With pride, and fervour.

For misery rhymes with confusion,

And trickery is not the solution.

They say one day I shall give up,

That I'll need their noise to make my choice.

They think I shall be ill and invisible,

Just like them!

Health and anger will protect my worried struggle.

They will feed me, then lead me.

For I have had enough of gutted apathy,

Of immortal immorality.

In this sticky old trap,

I will pray for the Lord to come back

To free the Souls that see too clearly,

That this world's heart is not beating freely.


Journey called Life.

In my little life I have been around the planet

By boat, train or plane with suitcases of joy and pain,

I crossed villages, harbours and hectic capitals

I have learnt to love mankind in sunshine or rain.

I thank the sky for the singular gift called Life

To have allowed me to return on Earth,

To become a child, and one day a mother and a wife

To learn how to dance, write and one day give birth.

As I travel I recognise the collage of humankind

The religions, the art, the different beliefs,

The authenticity that defines a singular mind

The power of passion, stillness and sometimes of grief.

No desert no mountain nor any deep sea

Will quench my thirst to understand and to be,

Life will guide my steps until the very last day

And in different churches, I shall learn to pray.


A love reaches its end

The toy is now forever broken

The last words have been spoken,

The bird from the nest has fallen.

A love reaches its end

Melancholy wrapped around you like a wet sheet,

You press the button that deletes

You feel the weakness of the heartbeat.

A love reaches its end

A suitcase full of memories thrown in the street,

A dead blue flower lying on fresh concrete

Your shadow dancing with all the fear.

A love reaches its end

Nothing left of the broken pieces to mend,

Alone, in your empty bed under the stars

You quietly scream to fight the scars.

A love reaches its end

The white page begs for a new chapter,

The patience to find the face of a new actor

And Life, begins again.

S.C. 11.2002


As I dive in the deep blue sea

Its silence gives me strength,

I swim wanting to be a mermaid

In the sea I am never afraid.

I feel his golden skin cover mine

And pray to God to give us time,

The salt in the water reminds me of tears

Dried up by the sun during the years.

So I swim as far as I can loosing sight of the land

Wishing one day to find his strong hand.

If only things were as simple as the sea,

Pure, clean, deep and meant to be.


You have been killing yourself for years,

And we have stood by you and looked

We have cried, screamed and laughed at your fears

But there you go again, you're hooked.

You say there is no point as you break another clock

We get on our knees and pick up the pieces,

and try to absorb yet another shock:

You used to be my rock.

Fuses of Fury.

Prestigious quotes, on dirty notes.

The knell of my story: he knelt to no glory,

The kiss of death wrapped in his breath.

Consign my love to a Soul which deserves it,

For dreams shan't be fostered by ineptitude

And simplicity asphyxiated by attitude.

A gypsy's tale crosses the Oceans

It carries the scent of voluntary solitude.

Murderous fiend!

Oh, golden hearse!

No horses pull your load

But carry my sword,

Along the dirty road.

Broken window.

Raindrops in my head

Snowflakes on my soul,

Sunlight in my eyes

Wind amongst my hair.

Missing dog, gone from the garden,

The parrot flew out of the broken window,

I sit alone like a frozen widow.

Fields of gold

Welcome to the fields of ripened grapes

Of golden sunlight and earthly shades.

The peasants are praying for the rain to come

Hold my hand and let's become.

We shall walk amongst the trees and fields

Courage and thought, will be our shields

And we will invent a world that is natural

Our feelings like tender leaves and flowers.

We will eat fresh bread, and drink wine

Staring at the golden hills for a while,

It will start to rain on the thirsty earth,

And we'll feel Paradise from death to birth.


You were my spider web, my wrong antibiotic

My quiet torment, burning and chronic.

You were my glass of wine full of poison

The wasted moments, the time ironic.

You were my prison, my broken ladder

My lost key and locked wooden door.

How many nights I slept on the floor,

You were the absent mattress in my head.

From sunset to dawn you were my lost dog,

The ambulance, the needle, the shattered clock,

You were the reason of my downfall,

Now you are gone, I have finally kicked the ball.


What would I be without you my friend

Only you will know it all until the end,

We will fight and always defend

Our mission in life by the skies sent.

When we are low we offer loud laughter

We are the bread the wine, the before and after.

Against all odds we never say farewell

And if we are wrong time and silence will tell.

For years we ran, cried laughed and screamed,

And I see your face as a small child

When we played in the sand under the clouds,

So innocent and so away from the doubts.

We now move in hectic crowds

Strangers drift in and out of our lives

But your face is a home, an authentic mirror

The mind that makes everything clearer.

A look is enough, and a word sometimes too much.

The tree.

I fell asleep under a drunken tree

And in the shade of its fruits you talked to me,

You said you were coming to me soon

Bringing me a slice of the silver moon.

The dreams showed me fields and oceans

Which we climbed and sailed in silence,

Conversing through the dialect of our eyes

Never fearing the winds of the golden skies.

Our journey will be challenging and long

Until we find a land in which we belong

Where we will build a house by the sea.

Im still asleep under the tree.


Life happens when you least expect it to

You walk alone and suddenly it hits you,

With a new road you never knew existed

The path that will change all that consisted.

Take all the risks that from time you may borrow

No one can tell you what you will do tomorrow,

And if you let life find you and follow the rules

Time and space will always cover you in jewels.

Make sure you keep a slice of your soul

For those who love you and be in control,

For as much you drift in and out of places

Seldom will you find those treasured faces.


Run my love run for I am insane

Time and events are distorting my name

My wish to love you will remain

But rules don't apply to this game

Run my love run far away

Midgets are dancing in my brain

I would take your hand, ask you to stay

But I stand alone under the rain

Run my love run so you will not hurt

For many are the scars under my shirt

The journey is long I can't find the train

So let me just sip a flute of champagne.

Run my love run and never turn back

The future ahead is a panic attack

I have your name tattooed on my lips

So silence will be my lunar eclipse


Ace of spades.

One day the almighty Majesty shall come back,

In this sticky old trap.

He'll wipe the mud off the children's eyes,

He'll tear the stitches of the wounded,

He'll heal the pain in petrified eyes.

He'll hold the hands of childrens whose sex is sold,

He'll dry the blood off the ripped lip of a battered woman,

He'll shoot the dealers and rotten rulers

He'll knife the leaders and the non-believers,

He'll congratulate the heretics, the hermetics,

The ones that in silence flee the waste of space

For in their pocket they have the ace of spades.

H'ell sell the Pope, the Vatican, and give the gold.

He'll soon realise how seldom health is found,

And at the sound of their idle sneers,

He'll go back and disappear!

One day God will come back,

But it will be the end of all the states,

For He'll come back, a day too late.



On the moon I wish to hide tonight

Sitting quietly, holding my knees tight,

Like a lost little monkey

In a galaxy that's funky.

I will bite the silver stars

And be covered in fairylike dust,

Loose track of night and day

Rebuild my fragile trust.

Tired of humans and the spirals of pain

The masks, the noises the lack of truth,

The death of pure spirits and enlightened brains

Empty faces that never knew the power of youth.

Angry at the thick blood spilled over our earth

Of innocent childhood murdered at birth,

The plastic alienation of technology

The simple end of noble ideology.

So let me be on the moon like a lost monkey

In the dark silence away from my planet

Praying and quivering on my knees

let them all forget about me, please.

Boomerang Love

The brain is to the heart

What silence is to art.

Funky Vibes

Shaking the bones of our ancestors we dance

Barefoot in the jungle shaking to a trance,

The untamed fire makes our skin glow

As the djembes heartbeat breeds tempo,

Time and magic liquefy our free spirits.


StaY SmaRt

You fall off the wall and bang on the floor

Someone ahead has is slamming the door,

You wonder at sea on some mislaid freeway

A car in the smog is pulling a handbrake .

The lights blind your vision before the crash

You manage to jump and avoid the clash,

Pick yourself up and run without shoes

Run away fast, your head is a bruise.

That no one alive will keep you on the ground

Remember the charm you found in his hand

The jazz, the candles, the art in your heart

Combat for life, and always stay smart.


ChiLl PilL

The little blue pill is sat in my hand

Its melting away, my head's in the sand.

A glass of water and I swallow it down

Oh how I wish I was out of town.

The mellow blanket wraps up my wits,

The slow motion movement finally hits.

The riotous pain becomes more remote

As I sail off on a white and blue paper boat,

The little blue pill has sent me to dream

And someone in my head has stifled a scream.


My Troubles with God

Here comes the first Christmas without you

But I looked for your present anyway,

Sometimes I wish it wasn't true

And my tired mind refuses to Pray.

Off I run, and I try to fly away

Always thought you were here to stay,

And that I would have died before you

With all the troubles I put you through.

My old friend, my Father, my only rock

An empty seat, a silver pen, a broken clock.


From the first day to the last

You belong to my fragile past,

I have all my present life to show

As I look for your footsteps in the snow.

I can sing, dance, and even faint

Scream in an empty night full of stars

Nothing cools down the pain.

I miss your ironed shirts, sharp eyes and handwriting

The screams, the laughs, the tears..

What we shared throughout the years.

You will travel with me, Father

Forever invisible but alive,

In my world made of silver and blue:

You are, forever, True.

O drunken Heart.

Whilst the big city's pumping

And the small village sleeps,

My drowsy mind is running

Trying to rescue one of my dreams.

Falling in the blue sea

A rock hits my knee,

Clouds of red blood

In water made of salt.

Salt like tears ,

Like silent years.

A bottle please

To try to forget,

A bottle please

I'm loosing the thread.

Under the burning hot  sun:

A wave of cold sweat.

Footsteps in my head

As I look for a heart that's safe,

A bottle under the bed

Just in case I am not brave.

Poets full of dust

Think from dawn till dusk,

The stars the sea, blood on a flower bud

Childhood and death

Poems and bread.

Salt like tears

Like silent years,

Midnight will come

and the boat floats away,

beneath paralysed stars

I will drink and try to pray,

So if you love  me,  take the bottle away.


There is a light-coloured space, deep in my soul,

where I find shelter when pain prevails.

Its a no man's land in which devils play chess with angels,

priests sip wine with murderers,

babies comb old men's hair on tired skulls.

That singular corner of my spirit is a limbo unknown

that slice of madness I Can call my own.

Power and wind.

When you become aware of the inner powers that live in you, the energy and control you have developed and perfected throughout the years, you somewhat fear investing this in others.

The fear that some bad seed may land and bring disorder in your personal magic garden arouses.

That a clear blue sky full of peace, full of your silence, might accept a dark cloud. That a large pot of black paint should be spilled over your inner rainbow. You fear that a fausse note might break the music created by your fingers only, your balanced dancing perturbed by a faux pas.

So we each build our lives like a castle. Rocks made of time, sacrifices, travels, tears, power, joy. Rocks that no one can ever take away unless you allow them to.

A secret sanctuary with locks and labyrinths to protect it. You may find refuge within it, but dont isolate yourself in the name of self-protection. Dont seclude your minds work by fear of someone elses influence on it.

Feel, foresee, listen, read and write. With pride and independence.

Create a crystal bubble and spread breadcrumbs around it, so you may find the way there and back more easily. Only travel here, and there. So you may understand the two different worlds and let them complete yourself, without having to compete one against the other.

Intuition, never forget, can be ones worst enemy or best ally. Once the inner powers have been acknowledged, it is imperative to use intuition and perception in a sober way. Read the messages clearly, slowly.

As much as passion may lead one to be impulsive, twist your tongue in your mouth ten times before opening it.

Like a funambulist above a circus crowd, slide your steps along the pending cord carefully. Juggle with torches of moonlight by the seashore at night. If you wish for a spectator to assist let it be without distraction.

Learn to open the gates doors and windows of your secret empire only to those whom have proved themselves trustworthy, clean and deep.

For one day they may do the same for you, and show you oceans and deserts you never dreamt of.

Be selective and have faith .

Been There.

Been there, in the numb land of betrayal and abandon. In that dark blue sand desert with orange skies, when it rains empty echoes and thunders panic. When the road comes to an end and you damn yourself for not leaving breadcrumbs behind. You have to reverse and find a brand new route. You have to try playing the silver flute in order to repress the urge to shoot.

Learn to re-visit and re-define everything.

Been walking barefoot on broken glass and burning ashes, feeling that not one seed in the planet could have a chance to grow in the infertile and devastated land beneath. Been in a huge black bed where sunlight had been barred forever, in a dark corridor where no steps

may boom. Yes I had just come out of that lazy amnesty between life and I, a paused film, which I believed, would never start again.

It felt like the sandcastle you so carefully built has been swallowed by a tidal wave; and youre left sitting alone on the beach with silence and fear draped around your shoulders, like a damp old towel.

Its like standing alone naked in front of ten thousand people and getting slapped on the face. Like being glued in a hospital bed for a long convalescence, with sterile tubes up your veins, a sars mask on your dry lips and an envelope full of Anthrax on the bedside table.

Blue pill, red pill.

Like Alice in Wonderland the choice had to be made. I was expecting it and it came, I believe, at the right moment. Just in time to zap something destructive that is outside of you, in order to avoid things slowly destroying you from the inside.

I sat there chain smoking to Vivaldis Concerto 1 in F Major, "La Tempesta di Mare". Then it suddenly dawned on me. This big déja vu of myself aloof in the air again.

Quietly relishing in a dull limbo that was neither meat nor fish. Toying with waves of non-belonging and falling backward into lethargy.

Re-visit the cradle of pain, fainting into a deep dark lake.

Then, something unexpected suddenly happened. My whole soul shook under a strike of alarm bells. A major wake up call and reality check.

Something golden and honey smelling patted my heart and said "No. Youre not going there no more."

It was like a million mini soldiers started charging against the alien enemy, dressed like silly blue dwarfs. The fight not to slip into a tidal wave of melancholy started fiercely. As I switched my phone off I smiled and danced a Greek zebekiko, remembering the salt, the sun, the sea, the laughter of the fishermen, the power. The freedom.



Alone, alone: I have now been alone.

Detached, in the centre of a big crowd, sitting at a table, involved in throaty conversations. Remote, dancing in a stranger's arms, on the spinning dance floor. Alone with my burnt wings and wooden heart my loud laugh and pensive smile. Apart, yet wanted by many, for one cannot possibly, be, alone.

You can pray to a stone, or a far beyond cloud, you can hum very softly or howl very loud. You start re-discovering the notion of time, in the ceaseless sky.

For at the end of the day, all you have is yourself. Nothing but your singular, hardcore you.

The faces, the masks, and the voices down a black plastic mobile phone: illusions. No matter how much love, spite or indifference one feels, one should learn to be fond of their personal no-man's land. Without it, automatic pilots couldn't exist.

When the brain is asleep and the heart beats, in the night filled with dreams, we reach that land. Like a fast forward film, the fears, images and thoughts stuck in our mental corridors come alive.

All the answers are there, in the fullness of sleep.

No point in waiting for the drugs to stop working. No point in questioning things too much, that would ruin the simple facts. Ask the right questions and in you, be alone.

If you hear a man say "Take the ball off me, miracles don't bounce if they are meant to be" tell him that the first freedom is doubt, and not to believe in miracles is just as important as to believe in them. Isn't half of something better than all of nothing?

Let the inner music in you rest at night, and let it be the sole universal language between you and those you come upon. But doubt, always doubt.

See all these men falling, scraping their chins over their own ineptitude? Walk ahead, don't look back. In this fucked up little existence we like to call our own, let's start chewing life as if it was a big, fat bone.

Some of you might consider that there are certain centuries in which it is better not to wake up, waiting for the next one, with Lestat. Ours is certainly so. They've started something they cannot stop. Technology is an illusion running faster than what's left of mankind. They are cloning babies for gay couples: we need a puzzle of ideas stronger than the microchip one.

So love animals, plants, old men and drunken priests. Love the laughter of a child under the shadow of a tree, in a lonely street. Love the reckless logic of the unsound, be alone and let doubt be profound. Cook your life, like your favourite meal.

If you happen to see the same old little man, and he asks you to choose between farce and head ache just tell him the latter will have to wait! When you are alone, with your doubts, you shall not let events or people put sticks in your wheels. The war against deceit begins there and then, in the no-man's land. Try to be that one eyed man in the land of the blind, and start judging books by their covers, you'll soon become one of our under covers.

You can't fit amongst people and noise unless you can fit in your own silence. In the same way as loyalty will not move without dilemma, tragedy without comedy, green without yellow and blue, beer without mil-k, success without failure. The way the sky wouldn't be without the rocks and the sea.

This is perhaps why love is a question of fragments, of right or wrong momentum. The end is the beginning, and when love knocks at the window the truth is to realise it will never last forever, it will eventually walk out of the door. Always, leave the door open. Don't let the past or the future shut it on your behalf. Choose carefully who to be true to, and make sure you carry around an umbrella and enough cash to catch a cab.

When the time to be alone comes again, fall asleep under a drunken flower, and miss your own funeral!


When evil meets good; or the Russian Roulette.

I was sitting on a very high cliff, in Mykonos, one late afternoon.

Displayed upon my disbelief, lay most of the Cyclades islands, floating on the sea like huge, golden whales. Behind me stood an old lighthouse, made of rock. I imagined the sailors through the years, decades and centuries. Afraid of their ship hitting ground yet invited by the light on the cliff to come and rest on land. I could hardly conceive the fear of those sailing. They must have been torn between the magnificence and the dangers of sea and winds.

Men on board with cheekbones burnt by the sun, their hair full of salt. Men with a woman left behind, looking for silver mermaids with long blue curls.

The sea was source of fish and muse to the sailors when all was calm, but it could swallow a ship to the abyss if the waves were raging enough.

The wind was a companion when it blew the sails in the right direction, but it could turn into a howling traitor when it suddenly fathered strong gales, making hope and spirit feel like fugitives.

The same force that made the sailors feel fast and invincible when all went well, became the beast that menaced the crew with drowning when it was enraged.

The infinity and the power of these forces had to be respected for man could never master them. The good in them entailed the bad; their splendour completed their insecurity.

So sitting on the rocks, I realised that the delight of the vista compensated the vertigo and the fear of falling off the top of the cliff. Perfect equilibrium between evil and good, eternal life and imminent death.

Yet again I convinced myself that nothing could be if not through its simple opposite. Light demands darkness, presence clings to absence. Matter depends on void, music on silence. It must be something like a universal compromise, an invisible understanding between two opposite poles. An all-inclusive rule.

That day my mother was quietly weeping over a scene in Primo Levi's book "Se questo é un Uomo".

It said that during the holocaust the reaction of the Jewish people would vary according to gender. The men would rather get drunk and screw around, the night before they were due to be sent to a camp. The mothers packed neat suitcases, bathed the children, and even took pillows with them. Children's clean underwear drying on barbed wire was the image haunting my mother's tears. "Whatever happens, even though she knows it's the end, a mother will always do what a mother has to do" she said.

The good of repeating the daily gestures to feign normality in the evil of imminent execution.

Good and evil will never be separated. Despite the laws, the crucifix, the masks and the narrow-minded people. Evil and good will continue their eternal adieu, like a slow, tight tango. It's like Hyde prancing around with Jeckyll, like a marshmallow sitting on a brick of metal. In order to co-exist with them, realistic juggling is imperative. Finding, through past erratum, the right tempo, equilibrium and harmony between the flying balls. Feelings, obligations, faith, technology, society. Passing from one good hand to the other bad one. Ideological mobility and social scepticism are two good therapies, in order to contain evil in good.

In order to engage one's self to the roller coaster ride of life, one must accept the pressures dictated by its circumstances. Solid action will help us understand the thin thread that separates upright from evil; this doesn't deny certain moments of necessary apathy. Energy builds up in the moments of deepest disillusion. The big paradox of senses. Even in the most terrible moment, try to find the small flame of a distant candle. If you manage to gear yourself up enough to follow it, you will come out of the tunnel.

Evil is never absolute. Part of the game is called choice. You can choose to throw the black velvet sheet wrapped around you away. Let the impulse of creating shatter the one of self-destruction. Despite the abandon, the cold dismissal, the pain of loss or betrayal, look for the lantern and the candle light in it. Cross the dark path beneath your feet and keep your eyes wide open. Once you get to the other side, never look back. Or you will become a statue made of salt!

If good and evil allow for invisible bridges to link them sporadically, it is forbidden for man to know their exact location. They have to remain confined in the gambling spin of the Russian roulette. Whoever you are, your life is as fragile as the thread between good and evil. Let your intuitions meet the land of poetic license and follow the road ahead, with the fullness of vertigo.

Don't try to separate evil from good, wine from water, life from death.

Let them bring you together.

Life in a funny Hotel.

In the drawers of time, up and down the stairs of space, in the corridors of life, there is no continuity. This is why some people's shadow clings on to a solid house, an everlasting street, a devoted partner and a national phone number.

The neighbours, the butcher, the baker and the flower shop fasten themselves to the image of the puzzle, becoming keys to add to one's ring. One has to be uncommonly civilised to the indigenous doctor and parochial priest; one waves to as many people as one possibly can, whilst crossing the street. Without them all is unfinished, incomplete.

One feeds the cats and takes the dog for a walk, teaches its children how to crawl. This from marriage to funeral, from the first car to the last leak in the local pub's urinal.

This is why some people live in this drawn out, grand and timeless Hotel.

Mortality in a brown leather suitcase, anticipation in a coat pocket and a key with a number in the hand. Life in the funny Hotel.

When they realise that nothing is lost or created, but that all things simply transform, their hope stumbles at the single sound of laughter. One won't live in the revenge of absence, or let a stranger's eyes feed them lies, at night. One simply becomes a sole player in a constantly mobile representation: a happy Hotel freak looking for an ever-changing situation.

The scrawny receptionists know too well, in which rooms sleep the drifters. They often call a taxi late at night; they then disappear in the rain, astray.

They have learnt to eat with chopsticks, with their fingers; they dance with a glass of wine on their heads. Like human chameleons their languages and clothes vary according to their crowd and its location.

Changing rooms, keys and pillows, checking in and out whilst everyone else is fixed.

Adapting everywhere and never belonging. The mini-bar fills itself by miracle every morning, little soaps and miniature shampoos appear in the bathroom.

The visitors have boarding pass in a draw and have forgotten the notion of abroad. There is no more elsewhere, whether you travel by train, boat or plane.

They hardly ever wait for the phone to ring, for they are happily doing their own thing. In the stand still of the Hotel room, dancing between past and future, in a detached stand by.

People come and go as they obviously should, phone numbers change as fast as the faces and their different names. Wet towels on the bathroom floor, steam on the mirror and empty promises down the corridor. Off goes the stranger they met on a slippery dance floor: straight through the bedroom door.

In the ashtray red lipstick on a cigarette butt, wrapped around the pillows the dim, exotic fragrance of the alien body. Tomorrow room service will remove all the evidence.

Life in the Hotel has no false pretence, for any question only means this is the end. Thoughtful alchemists or gliding albatross, somewhere deep inside, the pain in them is like a purple and blue stain. Their mobility has been the biggest rampart in claiming an equally free companion. For not many people are glad with life in a funny Hotel.

They're not into jet lags, lack of resolute future drafts, not into living in the mortality of the brown leather suitcase. They don't believe that room service can bring freedom up three floors.

They say it takes one to know one, nowadays. If they meet in mutual recognition, most of them will turn their backs to each other, in the name of the disposable society. Ken and Barbie scenario meets Catch 22. It has to be Ken and Barbie to maintain one's psychic indipendence. They will expect the worst hoping for the best, and melt the mint chocolate under the pillow in their beds. Melatonine pills in the beauty case for jet lags and one fixed point: movement.

The leading goal is to realise that the higher you aim the bigger the kicks in the teeth..

The main point is that in life, as in the funny Hotel, people never check out without paying.


The rainbow in my head, is slippery when wet.

I glide down its colourful corridors

When sleep catches my eyes.

The rainbow gathers blessed devils and evil angels,

And in its chaos I shine and revel!

I travel in its depths, forget all the threats

All that matters are dancing heads.

This worried head bares not sleep.


Nowhere, 1999.

Throughout her life Dyonisia had shared her living space with many a stranger.

The flats in which her bed happened to sit in never really felt like sweet homes..The front door somehow refused to lock itself for good at night, and it relished in swallowing strangers and friends at any hour. These places were always mother of chaos and father of wasted philosophy.

There would be someone sitting alone in a corridor, discussing very faintly the flower-cursed British wallpaper. There would be someone spilling sweet red wine from Italy all over his or her white shirt, on a roof in Paris.

She even woke up to find someone passed out next to her bed, with dreadlocks of blue wax in black hair. It had dripped from the candle on the bedside table on to his drunken skull during the night. This occurred on some island anchored in the Indian Ocean.
Dyonisia was hardly ever surprised. I think she was beyond the feeling of surprise. The only thing that sometimes came to mind was: "interesting."

She somehow believed her place was right there, in the wobbly core of the common heart that was beating in the aliens around her. They reassured each other, led each other on into glorious decadence, and had the most uncivilised time.

At any time and any place, the girl would attract or be attracted by the oddest people .
There's a certain deep and senile look about some people's eyes. Eyes that meet each other in disbelief, in a slow and weary process of recognition. Eyes that can yawn in resignation and ten seconds later spark with adrenaline, in full schizophrenic power.

Eyes and silence were two of madness' best friends. Then came the brains, split between paranoid distortion and hyper-lucidity. Invisible but tangible labyrinths where doubt tore you from promise to panic, from patience to claustrophobia.

Many were the Minotaurs one had to fear and foresee.

Dyonisia and her companions were all like Hansel and Gretel, red hooded elves and silver nymphets.

Many were the trembling strings in the wind and the scattered breadcrumbs on the road: just in case they got lost.

Someone else usually managed to boycott their threads and breadcrumbs.


That someone was no one else but them.

Like the floating threads leading to Penepole's refusal of time. Or the brown crumbs eaten by the black birds as soon as they were out of sight. They were both meaningless, considering most of them wanted to keep on straying in this isolated and tortuous maze.

Some of their fellow mad had been caught up by their ineptitude, or by sheer refusal. They were now locked up, sedated and lobotomised by nice men in white. The aces of the broken needles and multi-coloured pills. The doctors and nurses who knew best how to shape marginality into sheer oblivion

Of course a multitude of appealing identities tempted the ones who were in mental health care; some thought they were a lama on the cosmic run, others paranoid victims of a gay serial killer, or, they just simply thought they were Jesus Christ. (No need to be stuck in Jerusalem to think you are the golden child of the universal bell-boy: clones of Jesus were found preaching along Sunset Boulevard as well as seen mumbling to themselves on the harbour of Marseilles.)

They had the label of "off the wall fruitcakes" stuck on their foreheads, until time would turn the mere label into a lifetime tattoo.

Their hearts were soon to become as sterile as the hospital's corridors, their brains as predictable and square as the doctor's degrees framed in glass. That's it. They just hung about like a framed Medicine degree hangs on the wall of these white men's wooden offices. They became pretty useless, to put it mildly. The men in white tested new shock treatments on strapped, mentally challenged patients. A virulent yet nonchalant Ergasiomania performed on numbed down human vegetables.

The films "Birdie" and "One flew over a Cocoo's nest" were romantic mirrors of our lost friends.

But movies like"Man Hunter" and "Dead ringers" were just as appropriate. In both cases the notion of time and space no longer needed to exist. Solitude had been sculpted around them, offering a safe hiding place to alienation. For some it was a bubbly lullaby, for others the violet pits of evil.

Sanity had betrayed them, by placing their emptied souls in the no-man's land pawn shop, and this was in a Las Vegas sort of pawn shop.

No love or crystal clear relationships left, just a harrowing plastic bubble, to run around in like demented hamsters.

Dyonisia truly felt for them, for they could not be delivered: there was nothing she could do for them. They had nothing left to loose, not even themselves.

So she decided to concentrate on the socially apt ones. The ones whom like herself were tolerated by the clique, and sometimes ridiculously entertaining.

The ones that tiptoed on the metal circus line, high above. Under their feet the sound of car alarms, alarm clocks, and exhaust pipes melted into one illogical carillon. Distorted beams of colours fucked eachother all around.

Like a rainbow blowing up in sparks and smoke. The socially inclined nutters were constantly juggling with all the senses, senses that were trapped in a state of self-inflicted anarchy. Order in disorder was the inevitable quest. We couldn't possibly let the pills pillage our dreams and nightmares at night. Nor could we afford to have our subconscious and unconscious be anaestethised by medication: all the roots to the problems were in them.

Yet the majority of us relied on one or more artificial paradises. The alibi was to deepen the link between one's self and the invisible, the unintelligible, the road to anywhere.

Whether it be booze or spliffs, microdots, or Valium, or helium, or XTC, or shrooms or snow.. Habit slowly made these substances indispensable, in order to get where we last left off in our heads.

I have lost many socially apt friends because of drug possession. Serious drug possession. When Mendelt and a brat pack posse got found with hundreds of grams of coke in the boot of their car they were still in school. The police summoned their parents up and offered two alternatives: jail or mental hospital. Most opted for the latter, it was less disgraceful for the public image, and it was somehow justified by the boy's deviance.

The worst must have been the misfortune of Eric and Boris.

Boris was a short red haired raver, he was pale and paranoid, and always had a hat pulled down over his eyes and ponytail. His eyes were permanently absent, and he spoke very fast. Eric was a tall, thin, good-looking black guy from New York. Like many yanks, he was in Brighton for a year abroad.

The two lads were aspiring deejays and took a fair amount of acid. I walked to Falmer station with them and they told me about the cunning plan they both had. They would call their respective mothers and tell them they needed a thousand pounds each, to buy the stuff a dj needs. If they refused, the boys would threaten to swallow six microdots, three each. I laughed the whole thing off, thinking they would never be thick enough to do it.

Three hours later I got on the train from Brighton to Falmer and found them both sitting in the smoking carriage. They had tight grins and white foam at the corners of their mouths. They were making no sense whatsoever. Eric was blithering on about us three getting a flat together in town, that I was his best mate and that he wouldn't be going back to the big apple. I suddenly realised their mothers had told them to piss off, and the two twats had swallowed the microdots.

I heard security had ran after them and sedated them with an injection, that night. They had wreaked havoc around the campus and destroyed anything in their way. They were locked up in some asylum, somewhere nice.

But despite the mental challenge, the most lucid out of us knew only too well that self-destruction was the easiest way out. The real challenge was to be as close as possible to sanity, in order to avoid oblivion. In order to rise against the dumb down epoch of ours. To beat our fists against the concrete walls until they were red and blue. It had to be the end of the snoring apnoea our hope was floating in.

The political and economical leaders of the planet were playing chess with the fate of six billion human beings. They prostituted their fat arses for their well being, cigar in the mouth and a glass of old Bourbon in the left hand.

Mute mutants were what they wanted. Frozen spectators, lips sown by iron thread, eyes strangled by cables and ears sculpted by hot wax. Dummies that would weep over Princess Diana's discarding and never wondered why the clowns hadn't been able to get rid of Sad-damn, first.

The establishment had a strong hold on world control. All the satellites and cameras, and microchips and microphones. Big Brother was sharing information with Big Daddy and Big Cousin, now. All we had left to distinguish one another, on this mess of a planet, was numbers.

Hours, minutes and seconds, days, weeks and years. Social security numbers, area code, credit card pin, phone locks coins and bank notes. Numbers: that was all.

This is why certain timeless individuals drifted along the roads of the world. In order to recruit souls that had woken up from the long sleep, and was ready to acknowledge the fact that all of us have a peculiar mission on Earth.

Some people call them shamans, witch doctors, immortal, well worried, gypsy warriors.

People that just sat on the wooden pendulum of life, swiftly swinging above or beneath your normal, mortal pedestrian. Spirits that had shattered all the clessidres of the world, in order to rely on raw time, time invisible.

They had parallel roads and ancient counter-maps to everything. If you were prepared to go through physical death you could join the tribe and fight. For death was all around us, in a pathetic and sadly predictable way.

Bar blues in limbo

They pushed the heavy wooden entrance door and parked themselves on the stools, by the bar.

It was an Irish pub in Brussels: proper grub, stout, and Irish spirit.

An elderly businessman was humming to"Like a virgin", which was blaring from the amps.

Lola was so hung over, and everyone else on full form; she could have done with deep freeze cybernation. She ordered a pint of cider, instead.

A man drinking half a lager was spotted. " I wouldn't trust a man that drinks halves to tie my shoe laces." she mumbled. At the other end of the bar a large woman with too much make-up was talking to her glass of wine. She looked as if she had just escaped from a saloon bar from a third rate western movie.

That's why Lola cherished public-drinking places so much. Human aliens, everyday zombies were shameless and footloose in them. Drowning their invented dramas, celebrating their twisted and forever multiplying identities. An elegant man was sat in a corner, consuming large amounts of whiskey. He sipped his loneliness and looked frozen in absence, as if he wanted to be miles away.

Despite feeling washed out Lola played the game. She had talked the talk, now she had no choice but to walk the walk. She started sipping her pint of cider. The lady with the glass of wine was telling Rupert, the barman, that she was Belgian but originally from Ireland. She was flirting with him in slow motion; she was slurring. Funny how some women refused to age with grace. Lola found it tragic but somehow glorious. There is a radical, though ridiculous, m'en foutisme about these sixty-something muttons dressed as lamb. There's something terribly wrong with the colour of their smudged lipstick, their bright blue mascara, the frills and the length of their leather mini-skirts. Yet, the grandeur came from the decay of it all, and the irrelevance of it all. Nisa would often end up the night with one of these women crying whatever they were drinking all over her shoulder. The lines varied from "I was beautiful, really, I was.." with photographic evidence in wallet, or "That bastard should never have left me.." with torn, photographic evidence in wallet. It was melodramatic, melancholic, in a kitsch sort of way

It felt like they were all improbable actors in a play full of improvisations. As the décor melted a bit, even the faces seemed to liquefy. Dutch courage blazed the voices of the men, in an Irish pub, in Flemish Brussels. People started to move stools, then tables, disconnecting sporadically from anything rational. In less than an hour the place had become a loud, smoked up, chaos of faces. This often happened after work, on Friday nights. The feeling of being on an empty-stomach-drinking-carrousel. A couple of pissed up yuppies with loosened up ties had offered Lola drives in sport cars, she carefully dismissed the offer. She went out of the pub and on to the pavement, to collect her thoughts.

A bummer asked her for a fag, she gave him a couple, automatically.

A man was approaching slowly, but surely, on the pavement opposite her. As he crossed her way he turned and stopped at once.


Lola turned and recognised a scent, the face, half lit by the lamp post. It came back to her faster and faster, Sergio. The fellow she had met ten years ago, when they were fifteen.

"Ciao, Sergio."

As they walked back in the pub "I don't know why I love you" by Stevie Wonder was playing, people were shaking their arses. Time had stopped without stopping, everything started spinning. A bureaucrat was telling Rupert that China, Russia or the States were about to bomb us all. As Rupert grinned diplomatically, the man started ranting about saving the children "We have to prepare them with knowledge and information, means to power and emancipation. But can we? On no sir we CAN'T!"


Summer Sin.

Hot summer tides,

the horizon is trembling

Wet summer nights ,

strangers in an illegal embrace.

Sunlit beaches, where peace reaches.

Ice blue water cleans away the sins.

Dogs are barking in the dark

Saints are crying,

Sinners are laughing.


No point in going to bed,

For he isnt' there.

No point in getting up,

For he isn't there.

No point in lying,

For he isn't there.

                                  Don't waste Love.


Who do I have something to prove to?


I am looking for evidence of original thought,

True soul worriers.

Realistic roles.

We stop pointing the finger at others:

We point it to ourselves.

We can't hide and run.

Class is a state of mind.

When principles become luxury,

All that remains is polluted.

Independent thinkers unite.

Great battles need tiny heroes.

Vox populi?

We need a sparkling new doctrine.

To forget the negligent curse.

Undeserving aspirants needn't apply.

If your belief is sly,

You needn't try.


If I have one foot on earth and one in the sky

It must be because it's my only way to survive.

The spinning trail of my thoughts takes me up then down

As I sit in the fresh shadow, like a little old clown.

I locate challenges as I walk in the hectic streets,

And refuge in the clouds, when from humans I have to flee.

Perhaps you find it hard when I'm with you,

You whom conceives both of these worlds.

I need the sun as much as the moon

I need a knife, a fork, and a spoon.

The depth of the sea as much as high mountains

The sand in the desert as much as cool fountains.

I call for loud laughter as much as locked away tears

To comprehend my sanctuary and all of my fears,

I like to sit in silence or dance freely to songs

Eternally separating what's right from wrong.

Two twins live in me and they always will,

As I battle up and down the hills.

Which doesn't mean they cannot make one:

They simply complete each other in all I have done.


Pythia.The somnambulists are walking,

They are visioning and talking,

I cannot believe the insinuations:

They are witnessing the Revelation !

In the hollow crater of death,

To loose one's heart is rough

For if for silence you shan't crave:

They'll lock you up in filthy caves!

The insomniacs are calling,

Sleep walking and crawling.

They have more blood than flesh can carry.

Some of them are playing their silver violins.

They will remain guilty until proven innocent.

The drunken priest

Surely will exorcise their eyes,

Then sleep will catch them,

And feed them dirty little lies.



A little girl stands alone,

On the edge of a vertical cliff.

Her tiny curls are swept

By the frost nipped wind.

As she quivers, very still.

As she shivers, for the ill.

The clear blue sky

Showed her both sides:

The richness of the land,

And the beauty of the sea.

One was of solid earth,

The other rested over sand.

Her stone grey bijou eyes

Are petrified by lies.

How could he do this to her?

Make her adopt one of the sides..

As the void towards the sea

Made her tremble to the knees,

A blade of sunshine hit her eyes.

She kicked a weenie pebble in the sea,

And then went home, to wait and see.


Debit Debility.

Who is going to hide all your dead corpses?

Who is going to accept all your lost causes?

Who is going to remember your surrender?

Who will perceive the utter loss of gender?

All hail to the powerful radars and guns!

All hail to the terrorising chemical weapons!

All hail to the toxic radioactive waste!

All hail to the plastic world and its static taste!

All kneel to the death of pure philosophy,

All kneel to the loss of burning ideology,

All kneel to the execution of revolution,

All kneel to the wound infecting the solution!

Let us chant our way to the slaughterhouse,

Let us sink into ill boredom beyond any doubt.

Let us propagate the ignorance of our rulers,

Let us play the game and turn into muting losers.

For society is the ugly fruit of polluted truth,

For studies lead to a rat race in virtual space,

For technology has replaced any form of sociology,

And disbelief conquered the face of the Human race.

We will wait for the inoculation of all nations,

We will wait for the death of all discrimination,

We will wait for the transgression of the ill rules,

We will kill the beast, and never be mules.