the sublime madmug #1

1 © San Picciarelli

Index

✤ The Breathless Moon✤ Nevermind✤ Tookaway... ✤ Earth Natural Angel✤ Lost Lands✤ A Humbling Song✤ Harmoniously Amiss✤ La Sirena✤ Vividly✤ Verissimilude✤ Three Angles | Two Sides✤ Bardi✤ Within✤ The Eyes of Nowhere✤ Stone Work✤ From✤ Seventhirtyfive✤ Amidst✤ Myself Of Us✤ I am a Poet✤ Congenus Brither✤ Corner’s Ambuscade✤ Sabbath✤ Thither✤ What Makes me Feel like This✤ The Street Hunter


The Breathless Moon

I ask you to glance at the breathless moonThat in this blue veil of nightMight almost touch your very first eyes of morningAnd this midnight of oak and ashes would disentranceLike a too far road of leaves and scents to your dreams

I ask you to glance at the breathless moonAnd feel my lungs lingering because of this smell of yoursThese drops of sweet insanity that come down your cheeksWarming your skin downward the lantern light in your heartAnd maybe I do not want to feel it for you...

I ask you to glance at the breathless moonOnce she is the only one listeningAnd the only one able to translate what is forwardThis ground of pure land and clay cannot reach meOn the sculptures of your capturing though I shall try again

I ask you to glance at the breathless moonBut the birds have sung their lastAnd the bells on these trees would call all the forestTo tumble that sweet waterfall I bath when missing youAs if I sensed the ocean breathing and exhaling upon the coast

All over this dense growth of trees, plants and fruitsI wrap up my missing within running of rainstormsFear of thunderbolts of memory and trips to nowhereOnly to stand here breathing free with the cypresses Reckoning equities by staring into the eyes of this breathless moon in me...


Nevermind

Never mind the rain, It never rained on my painAnyway, do not cryThousand ways we should try

Before any ways, any spaceThe milkway, we should paceMake the rain today shyIn front of our own very 'eye'

But, never mind the rainIt never rains on my pain

I am you, you are meShould we like what we see?


Took-away

A light is prostrated in the scope of my malignancyAnd that doubtlessly recalls me of my plans to have you once moreThither back in the dark, as I remembered having a first bite

Upon your flesh, almost candid and quite impartial in the night.And early at the corners of those warm black alleys of oursIn that garden filled with reason, air all-around

Whence I usually shy my lames and shy my farewells from the crowdAnd for what I shall wait and again until the next black Sunday.What could be worst in this degrading laugh of love?

Would this be that desperado pronto we have been waiting for?Up at the utmost of me, of us, I shall cry tonight on your absence...And this lethargic permanence should probably twist in my pain

Lesser than yours, this sweet perfume left after your non-appearance.And I wish I could be there with you now but my screamsPoor and weak, should so full of certitude not reach your whereabouts

And my flowers are overweening poison, overwhelmed with angerAnd the seeds we planted, still there. Awaiting...If I could just tell you a second I would kill the clock and remain

Inbetween your legs, head poised upon your dream-temperate ventral

Bellowing the sound of life, listening to the rare theft nature of you


Earth Natural Angels

I feel I am not an angelBut please, do not think I cannot cry

I could fly away over the mountains of despairsAnd I could despise the despicableI could even smile out the oceanAnd make rains of teardrops fall in the Fall

I feel I am not an angelBut please, do not think I cannot try

As I wish so it shall be upon the earthAnd I feel connected to these roots Strung in my legs in this beautiful treeThis tree of life of all of us

I feel I am not an angelBut please, do not think I cannot die

I could hypnotise your natureI could make it very mineThough I wouldn’t know what to doIf you are me and I am you

I feel I am not an angelBut please ...


Lost Lands

To you I shall have pronounced all words inferredFor what I could not have pronounced all deferredThe lands of expectancy are gone nowAnd my land lands

Was it yours, bellowing the sound of the cureHas it been the thud well of your departureThe lands of forgiveness are gone nowAnd my land lands

What for and why should we wait until tomorrowTo presence the candour of your eyes of sorrowThe lands of querying are gone nowAnd my land lands

Underneath your waterfall of relief and white lyingWe plead ignorant and cry for maps for beguilingThe lands of lands are gone nowAnd my land lands.


A Humbling Song

I cannot but to silently contemplateWhat mutes me sound coloured and blind A woman of my own who ambulatesAnd humble my knees from the inside

There is no sound in this very poundingAs it barely fits the sacredness in her breastWhence I have been thrown blunt and yielding To make our new-found love our very crest

It is depth in her quiet gazing towards my cryingThat for once within announces my inner sighingTwisting up from an old oak-tree of thought

Seeding from thin and warm air in embraceA germinal from the music of her delicate traceMy silence in the purest piano song ever sought

to Thais, my queen and music


Harmoniously Amiss

A basket filled with wondering and fruit pieces andSugared beets from springtime reminiscencesInwardly handing blow scents and ill wills, lying flatAnd sunrises beaming from all corners and pores

The soul bathes from whence the shivers are bornA coldly coated canvas ground in it ceases roomFor magnificent warmth of buttresses that holds two movementsA circadian dance of the heart, and impossible grasp of the forest

Out in the fields, oak-trees squirm their tiny rooted fingersDeep down perfumed chunks of earth underneath its purposesLike spears from the kingdom of the wooded-bodiesWearing the gowns of those of the reigns of the underworld

Natural cherubic ancestors, nurturing seeds wane into beneathSo that the hungry spirits of mother earth may sense up aboveIn the briefest flickering sparkle of a waited morning souvenirTwo bare feet stroll about the holy blanket of dirt and leaves

Bearing the inconsistencies of the perfect genetic chaosHarmonised with the gentleness of caressing welcome touchesFor what the human skin is not suitably aware yetAlthough all grains of the fragrant land cannot reach but invite

Its sight humbles me into bellowing ferociously, refrained from speechThe roaring of roars, toward all natural forces and elementsSo that the outstrips of disconnected parting that enthrals meMay fall into the roots of all worlds, and we then may be one again


La Sirena

I poised my laid warm fingers upon the linoleum tonightUnderside lying myself and over it, nose grappled within her scentsIncinerating my senses, rupturing all retinas aroundBalm of dancing mermaid in my eyes

A thigh bouncing the music about on rigidity, melancholyTwo feet holding a posture of oak and impossibilityAnd an unachievable rhythm and moving sentimentBalm of dancing mermaid in my eyes

Veiled voracity, sweet tiptoed naiveness and furtherFrom the worrisome anxiety of arms running from the body Out of reach, out to reach for a second more of the musicBalm of dancing mermaid in my eyes

Within these spiral sounding motility and cryingShe holds all the secrets I have deep withinFor what I shall always find myself tangling in the insideBalm of dancing mermaid in my eyes


Vividly

What is your most vivid memoryDown the dungeon of yesterday night?Look into the depth of this honest woven floorAnd try your feet in the coldest of your soul...

Running you up from the heel 'till your dreamsWhere is your achilles' heel now you do not discernAmong those differences of just a few seconds ago?

Between iron and silver are the most stable elementsWhich I believe it convenient to you, dear mineHolding my sight and being as tangible as a component could beCould ever be you under the tree? Flying down enough to touch me?

Or would you only beg for a piece of floor to land your murmursWhile I would struggle to survive upon your smiles and amongst?I would rather be back to that secret place of yours

And I would expose yourself to contemplate who the real you is like...I remembered you telling me to come on inAsking me to harvest all your rainbows down and then imprison themTo conceal each part of it in the most secret place of mine

And I welcomed you to the real world with a whisper and a sighAnd I am coming to conceal your dream case, tangling and lingering...


Verisimilitude

There is a woman in a red dress now passing by With a strange paraphernalia of trappingsAnd peculiarly privileged trinkets around her neckIt resembles the eye of a wondering gown

Anatomically imperfect, she steps each foot onAlong contorted sidewalks with no gardensAnd no longer withstanding trees or summer smilesNo swollen beets filled with sugar, no pecking for us non-plumed birds

There she goes, the woman in a red dress Surprising skins all around with a stale breath and sluggish senseSome say she has walked that way foreverFor what sunlight mercy would tell it a lot better

Plethora of intimacy, loosen waist and slackened fabrics Keep on bouncing in guard of those doubtful laminasI guess she does not even care about the vets, rather curious in factEmbracing the distance with amenable convenience

She is truly in the verb, red-dressed woman (.)


Three Angles | Two Sides

Once the day is finally savedEverything could go well from it, butThere is fresh paint already cracking the wallsAnd smiles are broken by a sudden blowFrom air they take what’s needed to whisperIn the quietness of mute kisses in non-deliveranceMouths who feed from malignancy and fumeSharp as an arrow aimed at the heart of the cityImmersed in light and thin rain, clean cut over the shouldersWe are mesmerised with the fuzzy, dazed with unseen attractionContained inside possibility, hour, shame and timelinesAll so much much like getting the knack of living itAnd all over again, andBeing once more chasedBy idiosyncrasies and lack of senseBut incredibly, indescribably clean, Opened and beautiful

silenced…

Everything thereAnd smiles of airIn the quietness of mouthsBut incredibly, indescribably clean, opened and beautiful

hour…

Saved from it, but the wallsA sudden blowIn non-deliveranceover the shouldersliving it alllack of senseBut incredibly, indescribably clean, Opened and beautiful


Bardi

Open, ground, wound, a holeSacredness, light, lusciously as morningIntimate, of the linoleum and languageWeeping, ancestor scars, all smiling hiccups Dancing, one safe step, wings, de-licensed joyAlas, a bouquet of karma, fragrant love, immenseChords, scents, mashed essences, mind and odeJazz, particles, lantern warmth, a kiss, feminine

Liven


Within

There is an eye waiting for the perfect again ambuscadeFlickering lies, smelling around from your tastes in the airSensing the leaves of fears released now, breathing youEvilly rejoicing from the music of your heartbeats to be gone

Palming your backs with an imaginary warm blowingStale breath rhythmically on and on down your philosophy Growing downward from your stem of conscience, pushing andWeave-rooting into the dungeon of your make-believes

Feeding from your eyes, should it see through your dreams?For what all we believe in are nothing but beliefs and chimerasAnd once more, every time your hold a beat down for a ticAnd what you want to think is air runs upward your malice

Who is this one that stings rear ends back at all retinas of yours?The one that cries loud at night when you veil all your excuses outThose well-stoned sores thickly kept on the ground of your certaintyWho is that very one that inwardly knows about that?..


The Eyes Of Nowhere

Sight...

When I looked upon the earthI sighted a man falling into piecesand pieces of earth falling from his hairand tears of joy...


Stone Work

You have prayed and kneeled under the form of the purifiedWith the sacred crimson mantle-shelf of the stone artisanBut in untended treachery you were caught into your own injuryAnd you have been steeled through, an alloy desperation

Your eyes were to be buried in the sand of the unpronouncedSpurious requiem torso, broken apart from your vile misfortuneSo now you claim in mute ever since your pierced deliriumPalming the dark for non-resentfulness over your offences

As you livened up from your perilous inquisitionYou have sentenced your ignorance to the silent of the night

Alas, from that very humbled, peaceful and finely lit stone lairAn abyss of lamina, restlessness and shame was made found for you


From

From the easiness of touch, a safe kissAn old dream, sleeping in the darkFrom the backs, half blue, other a star isA friendly pathway, known, she, art

From mute music, sheet wordingAn ungovernable shout, hoarse, lighthouseFrom a whisper within the sound, rockingA burning light, a breathless light, pause

From the distance and missingOf the no-future, of proximity, in utter

From the gratitude and peakingOf even if there is no park, no space and further


Seventhirtyfive

as I walked out of the eveningall I felt was anticipation air surroundthe ground cold under my feetholding my body in warmth and hope

finding balance by reaping from the heatof wishing to have her sight within instantsto embrace tightly a smile in the insideto distort all shapes of remembrances

to fall into her world and againhaving her eyes sheltered in the intimateof this secret scenery where we live onmissing the seconds in isolation, feeding from touching

but I have seen a sunlight flarewaving its sentiments within a singingvaguely to my hearing, old to my memoriesin the most intense flushing for my eyes

and in such bliss I have been living these endless mementoesthither, from where I might not envision the very right momentalthough I shall distinguish whence my will is always callingfor that is ever and over-more seven thirty-five


Amidst

In the quiet of me, I bind my eyes to reach for your smell in the airAnd it tastes so real...So I sense foot steps lying lost upon a trance-like floorAnd a monolith of warm airBreathing through the eyes of mineI look around and cannot see you yetBut your scent...

I mouth the air around me to capture your sightInveighing my memory all over this palace of usThese lines of the vanishest of meThe dismantled pieces of perspectiveThe grieving desperation of your absenceA grief of flowers scents, of missing

Down the last corridor, I frame a warm-blooded tree limbAnd some sap of sweet scarlet temperatureSo I tie up my imaginary knots of trust and fluctuate and bounceDodging the limits of my perceptionWilling to sight you up thereMissing the ground with you, eating flowers from atmosphere

Spirit pupil dilated, desperado and patientTriggering serenities inbetween kisses of the palm of your handsA you and your chimeras noise of celebration

Behind the back of my make-believesI always find your company seeking for comfortUnwraping doors, sweating on me, bouncing the tree

Back here


Myself Of Us

Do not hold so tight on your nervesBecause I tell you, all you have is a system

Do not look so deep inside of youBecause I tell you, You might see me.

This light inside you, this one that shinesKeeps banging deep, moving on twisting eyes

What you see it is not, but a shadow of your ownTurning you into peace, then falling to piecesThe spirit that is climbing do not go so high

You reach for breath or reach for sighThere shall not be mistakeYou shall just not forsake

You are my God or my OdeMy rare nature, my innermost unborn

the very essence of meBut please

Don't hold so tight on your nervesBecause I tell you, all you have is a system

Do not look so deep inside of youBecause I tell you, I might see me


I am a Poet

I am...

Yes, I do write poemsI chew upon lines and I sense the senseTry to make sense of it

I do not write gemsI strew upon rhymes and I condense the commenceCry to pretence a bit

I'm a white lanternI tattoo primes and thence I am intenseMy, nonsense a wit

I do not infect with germsI glue upon chimes and I am immense as a fenceDie to suspense my wrist

I'm a sprite of termsI'm bamboo lines and I am an offence of sixpenceWhereby I senselessly admit

... a Poet


Congenus Brither

Brute logs of phi, a handcraft has been, a handPriding me into halving it, sweet the pomegranate is In bowdlerise, abridge and query

Two columns with no secrets were given to meAs it chastened me eyes while breaking wheat seedsIn grace, contemplation and a third

Pride forever bled on behalf of verity and highhanded wort Elevating me to a pathway prospect in accompanyIn glory, sacredness and fraternity

Smothering the commotion amidst the fracturesSealing the bellicose in me, blurting out our lightIn labour, munificence and compunction


Corner’s AmbuscadeI was right there, in withstandPraying for you and lingeringLagging upon your balm purposefullyAnd I could not see underneath

For what I laid away and obliviously dreamt Waves and wings, scents and hidingsEating from the earth under my feetWalking my mind out of myself hours ago

But I was right there, at the corner's ambuscadeAt snipe, with my nails rehearsed and buttressedUpon the verge of discipline, heedless and caringLying beneath and under, aware and further, onward

For what I shall not weigh in mind all weightYour feminine skin prostrated all over my willFomenting my malice, corrupting my passionPutting me at stare, just to care for, to stay there


Sabbath

Hands artfully wangling todays, sugar-covered meaning conductsAnd assorted puerile grins beaming all aroundBeautiful innocence to whom we venture making sense of all numbersA volatile code that shows no mercy for the unaware

Just about everyone is invited to leisurely stroll about today“Ambulate”, a bald eighteen shouted lungly impossibleNot to notice the resemblance with that old antediluvian non-compeerWho had most probably never scented true jessamine or tears

Unfortunately, no one has ever been fittingly able-minded, properly spiritedVictorious upon all this intent of unscrambling behind the seventh dateIts hidden purposes to us all, a multi gradation of ablaze and inquireCreed-split into several dozens of self-assured owners of verity

Much absolved of too high a price, less exempted with upraised excusesEverything we were just in need so as to remain far and wideHead-rebounding onto one another; practically dancingOver this ricocheting combination of senses, imminence and odds

Since the day we were first filled with likelihood and probability...

(Oh what a scarcely magnificent day today is)


Thither

There whence I took my painI regurgitate disdainToward a limp but mild fissureAnd swore upon my hate: pure

These arms of clay and ocean breezeShould cry of cut and cry of candourFor what these hands of fervour Should not embrace your fears of ease

I have it in my heartI have it deep within

Flowers of grin, smartBlue far scent of jessamine

Slumbering...


What Makes Me Feel Like This

What makes me feel like this, is this tasteThis taste of nothing ever tasted beforeThis very one that happens to be the mostDecent, disgraceful and forthcoming savour

The essence of untangled coloursOf mild texture and thick formThe very heart of all accountable explicationsThe driving forces of nothingness

Into the inner of myself and under itWhen is only myself bending and crossing aheadLying the lies of being tempted to deceiveTelling the truths of being mischievously played

Human nature, natural natureAll natures instead of this moaningThe spirit of ours does not permit nor empowerThese questions about to be done all over again

To the, my dear cloud of the seasideI address all the pain from this cold nightAnd this winter in my heart shall perpetuateTill the next dawn when we shall probably meet

With each other warm and sat atop the candlelightConversing in consonance with chance and torch fiddlingCrying tears of joy and happening the to be verbSo to chew away this foetid scent of obliviousness


The Street HunterTwo o’clock after the middle of the day. The tear hunter has long embarked in his own trip to that place no one can name, but the one within every one. When the listener has finally defeated the deaf dictator, and the long avenue runs dry and sour as a sip of acid sweat running down working arms, the street reveals itself aliterate. Everyone is visiting the city that surrounds perception. A man is lost in the middle of the world. All is far too democratic. All is foreign.

Hanging upside down from a tree are the smells of a candid spring afternoon. His metals being re-coined by the light of all suns, and scarce is his malignancy towards the kind roots of all issues. His boots are worn out, so his legs and his concept. And the dirt on his pants shows the amount of mercy that his story placed in his legacy for today. Two triangles.

A long rectilinear round of fresh grass adorns the gliding steps of those of pass by. As if we could fairly taste the sweetness under the soles of all walking feet, the tenderness underlying their go-nowheres, filled with destiny and similitude. There are those who hide their own showings, and those who do not. Two sidewalks and one big and white giant pole right ahead.

There should be nothing lesser than these mementoes in a hunter’s head. And behind his eyes, a butterfly wing caresses his retina from its inside out, as the images at the forefront build up from softness and clarity, as if the rear ends of his soul feed from the all the simplicity in it. Behind his backs, the dark-ended alleys plead silence, but everything is cushioned mute by the lords of noise themselves. Sirens and secret humming pieces inhabit everyone else’s ears, and yet, the concrete agglomerations of the city offers little comfort for him, the hunter in travelling.

Like a Pirandello’s character, his voyage aims at the cores of his own creation, for what, as such the unquiet coast seagulls up in the air, and the saline paws of the giant sea turtles, his grace, kindness and curiosity are easily forked into a walk-less sitting, right there at the cold concrete holding the weights of his flesh, and for not so knowingly – perhaps intoxicated – reasons. Two o’clock is again and most possibly the universal time for odds and possibilities… as he senses every other moment at present to be.

But there comes a sunflower from the ground up, and beyond...


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the sublime madmug #1

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