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btyl 5 and 6 are built around the lyrics by Florinda Fusco (see below), translated by Laura Modigliani

lyrics

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

credits

from beyond the yellow line, released January 3, 2022

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mauro strazzaboschi image

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

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