Get all 182 mauro strazzaboschi releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of white waves, shocked, aging, rolling, new folder, old eyes, hardasstone, mess, and 174 more.
1. |
btyl1
04:12
|
|||
2. |
btyl7
04:12
|
|||
|
Four Poems
the hours excised, eroded
one day I'll go from one thing to another
or with handkerchief on wrist
with vermilion forefinger to ask you again
pardon for the mile just gone
*
awful rag the farewell
in grape must that boils without intoxication
the elevator of solitude that ascends
to a deaf landing, an incomplete floor,
to what's funny for those still without
care givers, living dead.
vast tax vast this arrogance
of the die cast of the veto against the neck
fit for a collar without being walked.
*
the elastic forehead for watching God
from this shield of harangue.
insolence of action the nativity of the sea
backwashes under the arcades
nervous tic of lovers, love to be remade
|
||||
3. |
btyl2
04:12
|
|||
4. |
btyl5
04:12
|
|||
|
0.1
I count the bones now that you are almost close enough
behind the glass pane the hand pushes but does not reach
the body bent over to embroider a forest with pins
steady, so as not to prick oneself
wrinkles grow on the skin like roots, trees
little by little I chop off my fingers
my tongue the other tongue
covered with moss
all the way to the throat
0.2
put a sky in my navel and I will give you all my
slumber
the bones interlaced with iron threads the weight of the flesh
pressed on the earth the hair grown into needles
examine the body splayed its imperceptible movements the foot light as
air
I will not open my mouth of concrete
to say to you
come back later, it is always too soon
0.3
they told me the dead are present at the ceremonies
they arrive on time they are always behind you
the women wear big hats and long blue gloves
they carry necklaces of white beads inviolable like rosaries
you don’t notice their light step
you don’t smell their scent among
the guests
you don’t see their bare foot on the
marble
the dead walk on the earth
they mingle in the hair
slide down the neck, between
the ribs, in the veins, all the way to
the nails of the foot
the day they alight on the glaze of
the plates
or in the bottom of glasses
in silence we drink them
0.4
trunks of veins grow over me cross me
in the house there are neither stones nor bones
to form into toys
I loosen my braids to make a blanket to cover me
I play by myself plant nails into the earth
wait for the tree of the resurrected
0.5
an ermine struck at the center
of my forehead under the swollen skin
a trickle of blood drips down the body to the feet
as I embroider the skin held inside a frame
the canvases ooze
faces of ancestors surface from the backs of paintings
they stare at me they answer questions with questions and don’t ask for
answers
they tell me of a fragment of sky under the foot or
in the empty glass of my felt blindfold stretched across my eyes
they do not make appointments so as not to meet me they do not read me
their stopped watches they do not invite me to the banquet of the
absentees
I measure the chest, the cavity,
the depth of the scratch, the cracks of memory
I lay down my crowns of the queen of lost memory
there is no gauze for my carpet of blood
|
||||
5. |
btyl6
04:12
|
|||
|
0.1
I count the bones now that you are almost close enough
behind the glass pane the hand pushes but does not reach
the body bent over to embroider a forest with pins
steady, so as not to prick oneself
wrinkles grow on the skin like roots, trees
little by little I chop off my fingers
my tongue the other tongue
covered with moss
all the way to the throat
0.2
put a sky in my navel and I will give you all my
slumber
the bones interlaced with iron threads the weight of the flesh
pressed on the earth the hair grown into needles
examine the body splayed its imperceptible movements the foot light as
air
I will not open my mouth of concrete
to say to you
come back later, it is always too soon
0.3
they told me the dead are present at the ceremonies
they arrive on time they are always behind you
the women wear big hats and long blue gloves
they carry necklaces of white beads inviolable like rosaries
you don’t notice their light step
you don’t smell their scent among
the guests
you don’t see their bare foot on the
marble
the dead walk on the earth
they mingle in the hair
slide down the neck, between
the ribs, in the veins, all the way to
the nails of the foot
the day they alight on the glaze of
the plates
or in the bottom of glasses
in silence we drink them
0.4
trunks of veins grow over me cross me
in the house there are neither stones nor bones
to form into toys
I loosen my braids to make a blanket to cover me
I play by myself plant nails into the earth
wait for the tree of the resurrected
0.5
an ermine struck at the center
of my forehead under the swollen skin
a trickle of blood drips down the body to the feet
as I embroider the skin held inside a frame
the canvases ooze
faces of ancestors surface from the backs of paintings
they stare at me they answer questions with questions and don’t ask for
answers
they tell me of a fragment of sky under the foot or
in the empty glass of my felt blindfold stretched across my eyes
they do not make appointments so as not to meet me they do not read me
their stopped watches they do not invite me to the banquet of the
absentees
I measure the chest, the cavity,
the depth of the scratch, the cracks of memory
I lay down my crowns of the queen of lost memory
there is no gauze for my carpet of blood
|
||||
6. |
btyl3
04:12
|
|||
7. |
btyl8
04:26
|
|||
|
from “Under the Acorns of the Oaks”
“I have conquered the empire of an attic”
Fernando Pessoa
no longer wanting to commit
the dragging on still does not mutiny.
it is not the full grave under scrutiny
nor the idol of birth without sunset.
the dip in the path shall find paradise
under the acorns of the oaks.
*
not reaching the soil nor the air
the hangman’s chrysanthemum.
the observatory of the forehead
is unfit as a lookout
against all the bullets.
since yesterday the dunes of motherhood
rest wisely, they know the time
of buoy, the burned satchel scored
by the harangue of the prosecutor without embers.
*
with throat consumed the ringed compendium
this rough-hewn fence
scarlet in the midday morning
tumult of vetoes dacha without food.
skip the snack on the river banks of expiration
of the firearm of the chimney that berths
path of the concrete foot.
lower than me is not possible
if not in death of twin dog
of the fortunes that all undo it
scrawny, meat-packing district, roof
that breaks with the straw:
useless the bonfires made perhaps for mercy.
*
concealed in the mother’s chest
forum of moonless father
asks now for an angle of bread
a necessary taste against the wall
of gods endured…
laughed the beautiful dialect just yesterday laughed
when august was spent on the roof
of the wafers of the sun, wafers.
old fashioned at the bar aisle
pays centesimal minutes
minuscule murderous evils
cries and chides in the death of the space.
*
the bivouac shall mourn the slope of the scattered
to the inert preserves to the absence of beauty.
has to release a wild goat’s trill
gullible still of having the choice
between one pebble and the other and a protocol.
has to release a slope of stagnation
a dull matter date and desert.
disheveled hovel comatose chimney
hum a refrain for all of them
the tortured hoards of fog…
|
||||
8. |
btyl4
04:12
|
|||
mauro strazzaboschi Venice, Italy
prova ancora. fallisci ancora. fallisci meglio. (S. Beckett)
carpe this fucking
diem
fatto è meglio che perfetto
uno spigolo ben fatto può dare più emozione di una delicata curva
chiedi perdono, non il permesso
Eh, la vita ... una bella sfida!
Ogni sogno a cui rinunci è un pezzo del tuo futuro che smette di esistere
solo nell’arte è possibile trovare un compenso al disordine del mondo
... more
If you like mauro strazzaboschi, you may also like:
Starling
by Katherine Kyu Hyeon Lim
A testament to the violinist's agility and a powerful statement that shows her willingness to explore her instrument, brought to life with a little help from her friends.
go to album
Going Home (Album)
by Tristan Eckerson
Completely improvised piano pieces that have a stunning warmth & beauty, as tender as a gentle embrace.
go to album
Landvættirnar fjórar
by Guðmundur Steinn Gunnarsson
Icelandic composer Gudmundur Steinn Gunnarsson builds playful, experimental motifs around 13th-century mythological creatures.
go to album
On her debut LP, the cellist captures both the turbulence and the euphoria of transformational times.
go to album
Hushed and quietly moving piano compositions from NODFELD that build slowly to a cinematic sweep.
go to album
De Avonturen van Joeri Chipsvingers
by Joeri Chipsvingers
A brain-melter from Belgium’s Joeri Chipsvingers, this album goes full Beefheart on contemporary classical music, turning it inside out.
go to album
Midnight Improvisations // Mélodies Pentatoniques
by antinode
Gorgeous piano compositions from antinode that are hushed and moving.
go to album
