Everything we were

Of the earthquake we were, I remained as the crevice. Exposed. With that sound cracking me from inside. Although maybe it were my ribs while breathing. Of the storm we were, I remained as the drop, that became big like a pond, that nobody knew, but that was deeper and not just a reflection. Of…

Course

So near, yet so far, I can’t understand if I see a reflection or if you are under my skin. Maybe it’s a mirror or it’s what I want to see. It might be so complex, but that’s how it should be. I intertwine my course hoping to gain access. I let my hope guide…

Ten reasons for remaining a child

“Praise to the soul’s immortality” 1. I am like a child, I don’t believe in tomorrow, that’s why I don’t fall asleep early. I need the police to avoid erring and a priest to confess. 2. I am like a child, when you don’t see me I behave like I am. And if you don’t…

Poetry

The solitude of poetry, the solitude of the years. The poetry of solitude, the years of solitude. The weight of the years like a self-denial of threads in crucifixion. The sea without owner. The vacuum of poetry, the vacuum of life. The poetry of vacuum, the life of vacuum. The weight of your dead like…

Inside of you

I was so inside of you that I know your heartbeat, I know how you are inside, and I still can’t understand how hour heart fits in your breast. I was inside of you, while you were giving me life even before it had started. I was so inside of you that I learned by…

Nothing is…

Nothing is obvious, everything changes. Nothing is notorious, you find many angels who reach for the glorious, rescuing many strangers. Nothing is ever quite what it seems, maybe you’ll never wake up from dreams. You must be clever, don’t take extremes.   By Luca Arnaldo Read more texts by this author

Questions (originally published on a Monday…)

Today it’s Monday, yes. Monday, that day so many hate. That day I also hate sometimes. And, nevertheless, it’s going to be a Monday on which I will give way to this new adventure I am now starting with you. Who knows!! Maybe Mondays are not that bad after all… The warm summer is about…

Fifty times

Fifty seconds of pleasure. Fifty minutes of birth. Fifty hours of leisure. Fifty days of mirth. Fifty weeks of innocence. Fifty months of strife. Fifty seasons of evidence. Fifty years of life. By Luca Arnaldo Read more texts by this author

I laugh

I admit it and I confirm it, yes. I got more problems than garments in my drawers — and down there, between my veins and my failures, there are a lot of scars looking sideways that hurt when you touch them. I cry, I cry a lot and very loud, when I remember that I…

Maybe

Maybe tonight or maybe tomorrow. May all that fight take ‘way that sorrow. Maybe one life or just one more morrow. Take all your time and make it great thorough. Maybe last year I just felt a bit lonely. Now I’m improving, I’m fighting so closely. Maybe this month I will reach out to you…

Crisis is…

Crisis is a cradle for crafts. Craft is a life full of energy. Cradles are made for people. Craft and create a crib. Create and craft with a nib. Creep and croak with your sib. Crisis cracks crooks. Cradles create crops. Crosses cradle creeds. By Luca Arnaldo Read more texts by this author

Nexus

All of us, our eyes closed, we walk dreaming, daring to play with fire without burning. Meanwhile, the incandescent fire, while nonexistent, flames internally, moronities murmuring. Because the invisibly impalpable, while doubtful, grows vehemently without abstaining. But the impossible control, while irritable, prevents sturdily the heart from frightening. By: Arianna Frencia (Italy/Eritrea) Author of Letras &…