A man with a strange colorful umbrella #3

It was raining, and the man with the umbrella with the colorful umbrella of words, dreams, and cats was covered with greyish, heavy, oppressive dust.
The umbrella lay on the ground, worn and crooked.
The man was bent and praying, his hands trembling, and he prayed, even though his hands could not join, he would never have it, they trembled as the car from the passenger side floor picked up a fruit box from the car. Wrapped in a white, red and blue blanket, there was a living red, gray, red coat.
Stay with me, said the man who had left his umbrella and his shirt at the center of life, pain and resistance in front of himself.
He looked for help from the doctor of the cunning suit. He looked at him, perhaps thinking it was a box of oranges, swollen, shaky, and fighters. He looked up and looked at the man, now back boy,
As if it were a naive and stupid child, with his dreams like babies with glass bones that could be crushed to the slightest touch.
“What do I have to do?”, she said.
What should I do? Not a soul, a spirit, a body, a will, a heart.
One thing, number, object, nothing on the lime of nothing.
“Morphine,” said the doctor, placed the enormous butterfly in the saddle and nervous nipple like my arm as she, inside the cassette, screamed, and inside, with her, as she whispered in my mind to take me away from here, I brought home, but the morphine dispenser assured me that he would be better there, and once again the man, the boy, I, was wrong.
And the man with his torn shirt leaned over her, told her I loved you, it’ll be all right, but she’s out of the shit crap he’s not real and you know it and screams again.
I think of it, “said the dispenser of morphine, but the man did not see or hear anything apart from her, and the echo of her yells in me knowing she would hear her forever.
It went wrong.
The man with no umbrella and shirtless came back, the cat was now a bunch of bullshit bruised and not liked.
But before that, when the hand with the morphine syringe spoke, the man fell and fell, fell inwardly on a cold and aseptic floor that sometimes knew of beings treated without dignity,
Numbers and not names that do not have the right to suffer or feel, normal people who do not feel anything.
“Can you put it or take it away so?” , she asked.
“The usual one,” I said.
Satori.
And in her mind, a light bulb lights up.
Understand who I am.
I’m Luke. I’m Romeo, Monet and Ladycat. All of them.
The multiple lethal injections for Romeo, the cat that was the dead man walking, but he did not give up.
What in the time of a cigarette, for the time necessary to take the damn cardboard box, came out of the fog of pain, which caressed the cat that was to be visited but
That perhaps he would have met the final syringe, spoken to sweethearts by the little girl who told him “you really love animals”, the scared and confused lady, to the same veterinarian.
Because I had seen the cancer that was gnawing her cat, who gave her a hand, said something comfort and greeted her with a gentle touch on her shoulder.
What was forgotten all five minutes later. But so is life.
And finally the man with the broken umbrella and the tattered shirt came out with a empty empty fruit box with a white, red and blue shawl.
And a cardboard box full of ghosts and her.

A man with a strange colorful umbrella #2

One day the man with the colored umbrella with cats and flowers walked by car in a busy street and at one point saw a confused spot on the perimeter of the perception.
He realized that it was not just a stain, “help,” he said, when the man walked beside her, or he.
The man with the colored umbrella of flowers and cats and words took off his rorschach shirt made of illusions, dreams, and hopes, and left it planing near the confused spot, and the others did not or hit it.
He stopped the car and ran to him or her, and the others did not even hit the man because somewhat confused and distorted they saw themselves on the ground, along with the multicolored and abstract shirt.
He picked up the confused spot, now true and outlined and miraculously, lightly button of life, clinging desperately to life, and keeping every straight, muscle and atom in line as straight as possible, because any misalignment would be fatal if he or she He had survived.
With his firm hands but trembling he carried the stain with him, and his shirt made him look like a pilgrim in the middle of the street, then a crazy, one to insult, who gutteth doors and growls, gives orders, prays, who nurses, Who waits, he cries in silence and prays again.
And then the man with the umbrella with the colored umbrella of words, dreams, and cats with his shirt made of madness, comes home with a new brother.
But there in the middle of the road there is still a stain on the asphalt, burnt, almost dark in the blood of the white and black spots.
Because it was not a dream but reality.

 

 

 

A man with a strange colorful umbrella #1

Once I knew a guy he was writing and his writing was an umbrella.
Those colorful umbrellas with flowers and cats and people asked him to see him always asked him why “walk with that funny umbrella if it does not rain?”
But then it started to rain really and since when it rains people do not talk and listen no more, and runs away, the man remained alone. Apart from a guy with a normal, black, heavy umbrella.
“What do you do without an umbrella in the rain?”
“Here is my umbrella”
“But it is made of words, it does not stop the rain”
The guy with the heavy umbrella clenched in the black suit, anonymous and anodized, shook his head and left, leaving it alone.
People do not like the rain because it is pain and silence that runs on you without you being able to do anything.
The man with the colored umbrella lit a cigarette in the rain …
.. and every time it’s like turning on that last damn cigarette.
With who?
Only the man with the umbrella knows the words, flowers, cats and dreams.
That is, me.
And he knows he will have to keep it forever, because there is always an invisible cat in the rain waiting for an invisible man with a colored umbrella of dreams, because he will never stop raining, and will always fall dreams and cats and flowers from the clouds painfully full of life.
To color his umbrella.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paradise X

woopy

“Major X”
Where is your gaze?
Here it is all different,
i no longer find our firmament …

“And the stars look very different today” *

I was looking for him
but it is up there,
You turned the corner
in search of the new wonder.
Hi, Mom, I’ll come back soon,
i go to greet my old friend,
look for me in the arms of the Milky Way
on summer nights,
I will be there
and I will guide my sisters and brothers to our home.

* (Bowie, “Space Oddity”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Under a rainy stars…

I saw her descending the crest in the rain that day. Head bowed and curved shoulders but with his unshakable pride and dignity. I ran into her, called her with my heart in her hand, screaming for her secret name, eventually I reached her and she turned.
Her gaze  was opaque and confused, a tremendous unexpressed sorrow.

Where are you going?
Let me go, please.
Do not leave me alone, I can not do it without you.
Trust me and keep me in my heart, I’ll be there.
Then a handshake, a hug and a heartbreak between a smile and a cry.

She turned and walked in, followed her with a look until she became a point away, and I continued, and I continue to do so, chasing a white, red and gray whip from the immense and indomitable heart.

She was born in the rising sun of a rainy day, under a sky of weeping stars, fragmenting into the air, sheltering in a few silent souls.
And if you listen to silence at dusk, you will feel the crystal clear and painfully happy scrap of the deep and polychromatic blue scale intoned by the girl of September:

“I was born
With the morning sun
In a snowy day
Under a rainy stars … “

 

 

 

 

 

This side.

What’s wrong on this side of the moon?
Please come in, and close the door behind you,
little lady,
sit down near the invisible line
of silent soul with the eyes without limitness,
and cross behind the courtains of your blindness
jump the stakes of normality
and follow the thin red wire of your fringed kite.
Stay with me in our silence.

Tyson’s run.

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Nothing new on the east front,
no one sees the soul that stands out
from the top of the tree during our inner midnight.
No one sees the trails traced
on the worn and twisted metal nets.
Almost one turn,
but a fawn biocohol of hope,
and we run again, together,
for him.

 

Niente di nuovo sul fronte orientale,
nessuno vede l’anima che si staglia
dalla cima dell’albero
durante nostra mezzanotte interiore.
Nessuno vede i sentieri tracciati
sulle metalliche reti consunte e contorte.
Quasi un turno,
ma un fulvo bioccolo di speranza,
e corriamo ancora insieme,
per lui.