Ladycat War Zone. A crumpled red thin can.

Can you hear me, Lady?
A short dispatches from the moon’s blue zone:
can you listen the chaingun’s white noise?
into the deep who is your loneliness?
Ghost recon under a heavy rains, your pow was disappears from other sights, millions of thousand lights is outher to their frames.
We can’t back from our bricks wall, our necks need the inner Southern lights, spotted flags fills our hands, unspoken words fills our scared night but can’t knocks our down.
We can run again in our open change.
We scape other worlds, we bullet our freezed times, but we feel your names.
Words like a middle external camouflage, seems like a broken breathless and a little missing thin red shaped heartbeat.
No path near the waterfall, an eternal sunshine on the hill’s runners, drop down the false flags under the heavy raindrops during the soul siege.
Fill the inner face with in our unchangeble wounds,
give us the odd steps in our smashed bones,
show to us the hidden wounds in our unspoked words.


(Images copyright “Man in the mud”, Australian War Memorial)




Ladycat War Zone: Monet.

Non siamo caduti per un proiettile fantasma.Era lì, lo vedevamo, lo toccavamo.

“Tutto ok, non vi preoccupate”

Non era un proiettile fantasma, ma una granata a frammentazione vera come una mazzata nel petto.

Siamo rimasti lì in piedi e in silenzio.

Stavamo urlando dentro e ci coprivamo gli occhi a vicenda.

Non puoi essere così stupido da non capirlo, sentii.

Sto ancora scappando e urlando.

Con quei dannati (alieni) frammenti chiraliformi impazziti

alle costole dello spirito

che stanno inchiodando a terra i miei piedi.

Non ci atterrò un proiettile fantasma.

Ogni tanto tuo fratello cerca di scardinare l’armadio.

Fallo uscire da lì, ringhia.

Non c’è nessuno lì dentro.

A parte l’eco di un proiettile fantasma.

Ladycat War Zone. Inner shelters.

Beyond the inner shelters, everything I do (or what do we do?) Is an act of love or affection.
Otherwise it is just an empty gesture, free, meaningless or commitment, a waste of time. Like writing, especially here.
It is a psychophysical way of mine to stem an inner monologue proper to reminiscence and unequal struggle.
“Stay with me, talk to me”
If these are just words of fantasy, what could be true?fla.jpg

Ladycat War Zone: A fawny captain.

Bamboo cage, Captain.
Red Pow.
Confined in no ontological bubble of two square cubits, beyond it goes.
The compressed and foreign world, crimson flares in the fog.
Landing zone, an absorbing cloth, stop there armored, motionless, plastic green bulkhead, not grass, cave the narrow, blind space under the bed, the inner invisible enemy.
The hardened and leathery skin, amber, cracked and bruised irises.
Where finished Captain, what did you see and fear over the window, in the beloved garden that became hostile?
Where are you now with your face dried and plowed by the sun, the fawn fur roaring in the wind?
Launched at full speed against the Valkyries, what have you shown me, spared, covering my eyes?
You will find yourself at home in your arms, always side by side, perennial against life.
I await your smile, which I like that we still have to do, which brings me up there, evading the crimson tracks, with your crazy and immense wise lightness.


There’s no problem, it’s just fantasy.
An insane impossible vital vision.
We’ve never been there, soldier.
None of us has ever been there.
Nobody has come back whole.
We stayed for a few.
Better words powdered with imagination
unbearable real shots…

Ladycat War Zone: Tommy.

On the Hill there is a sparkling and light air, alive, even if from the valley it seems all gray and leaden, our calls if they arrive seem dark or unknowable. We have the life sewn on like a second skin, we run, we dodge and pray, we get up there together, we make of us flags in the wind, of the controlled and altruistic unconsciousness our bread. You gently laid my hand on the decompressed lung, the voice on the crackling heart, you held my trembling body and my life with all your strength. Of our first meeting without glances, without names without savings, no goals, but only being there in that small vital instant, that sound of an impossible voice of the heart, that impecation in heaven to the road to everything, that belief in me, in us without limits, that act of ingenuous fortitude, of blind will, of a moving movement of the invisible sky, of a possibility, of a hug, a voice and a breath, remains a trace on the road and one on you, on your white combat uniform, the only witness of our fight without looks exchanged or words, but only hearts launched wildly carried on the shoulders of a lenient rainbow-colored angel, I was “Little” on the thin red mile, I could only be an eye open for a moment and a faint greeting of a second, only the blurry track on a photo, but they had compassion for us, we are alive and together. And they suggested my name: Tommy. 

Sulla Collina c’é un’aria frizzante e leggera, viva, anche se dalla vallata sembra tutto grigio e plumbeo, i nostri richiami se arrivano sembrano cupi o inconoscibili.

Abbiamo la vita cucita addosso come una seconda pelle, corriamo, schiviamo e preghiamo, arriviamo lassù insieme, facciamo di noi bandiere al vento, della controllata e altruistica incoscienza il nostro pane. Mi hai appoggiato delicatamente la mano sul polmone decompresso, la voce sul cuore crepitante, hai trattenuto il mio corpo tremante e la mia vita con tutte le tue forze.

Del nostro primo incontro senza sguardi, senza nomi senza risparmi, né traguardi ma solo l’esserci in quel piccolo vitale istante, quel saettare d’una voce impossibile del cuore, quell’imprecazione al cielo alla strada al tutto, quel credere in me, in noi senza limiti, quell’atto di ingenua fortezza, di cieco volere, d’un commosso movimento del cielo invisibile, di una possibilità, di un’abbraccio una voce e un respiro, rimane una traccia sulla strada ed una su di te, sulla tua bianca uniforme da combattimento, unica testimone della nostra lotta senza sguardi scambiati né parole, ma solo cuori lanciati all’impazzata portati sulle spalle di un clemente angelo color arcobaleno, ero “Piccolo” sul sottile miglio rosso, potevo essere solo un’occhio aperto per un attimo e un flebile saluto d’un secondo, solo la traccia sfocata su una foto, ma hanno avuto compassione per noi, siamo vivi e insieme. E gli hanno suggerito il mio nome: Tommy.