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as Mughal - between my lines

I dare compare me to Mogul? Well, it looks risky by comparison ... but one thing in common, now, we have: I am also become a lyricist! Yes! Moss was one of my text, making it a beautiful song!

The text of the song is an adaptation of one of my poems, this one , that my friend Serena Sabatini has music and sing! The thrill of listening to his words into music is great and all my thanks to Serena for creating a music wonderful and to have sung with passion, delicacy and elegance my text (taken from one of my poems which are related).

I leave you to hear the song!

By Silvia Ponzo, Serena Sabatini

"One of my lines"

Sing Serena Sabatini

Click here to listen to the song!

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Here we are again

But I'm here now:

http://impudicizia.wordpress.com/

Taciszow Nosal Grzegorz

Emotional waiting for a warm, welcoming embrace Nothing

Where is that warm hug to welcome me as
the safe haven, as
the nest, as the promised land, as the
granted asylum?

Where's that button and chest protective
I groped in the darkness my load of alienation?

Fall 2008

(as you can see that this is dated today, after a year, I ask myself more questions like these ...)

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I am nothing.
You're not anything.

None. None. None.

We are the mist that falls on the plain sleepy
of memory soon forgotten.
We are the bitter sneer of life that fails.
We love, love
you're not, you're not
love
you are nothing!

're the anger that I have for myself.


I am nothing, and neither are you.

But at least I have the beauty of these words!
And you never know what it means to be!

Fall 2008

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The mirror on the wall

I realize they are no longer the same,
the reflection in the mirror I see a stranger,
I look back and I lost my way,
are abandoned by a face mask.

All these years where they lost?
What has become of me?
I ask the mirror,
beg an answer ...
But the mirror on the wall does not have a word for me.

lost in this realm that I disinherit,
do not have a place and driven back
vague vague vague and aimless,
I have no more hope in my heart.

I do not have a faith that has faith in me.

Where are my hidden past?
slipped away without my noticing,
what remains for me, what
,
who have I become?
A mask without the face.

The reflection in the mirror spectrum taken from me: I do not
refers image.
Mirror, mirror on the wall ... have a word for me?
"You do not exist,
you're not anything,"
seems that every time I answer.

No, I do not have a place driven back ...
and drag my unhappiness and my mask was too short for eternity ...

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Everything ends

Everything ends,
every, every thing ...
any time
every, every
,
even for an instant.

Oh, no.

Everything ends. Everything.

And not even a fleeting moment of happiness ... What should I blame

atone for thousands of years to be sentenced to such a misery?

Everything ends,
every moment, every
.

Love is never started.

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I finished a book of short stories.
And one of poems.

I do not think will ever be published.
Who will send you a copy photocopied it to him.

The experience of this blog is closed.
or open another for other experiments. Maybe.

Now I have other things to do.
Thanks for bed.

Please write me.

And since the writer is a servant of the reader, I leave. For now.

your
Taz.

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Epilogue To you I

you put it to you naked. Tearing off the linen suit with the strength of my arms.
leave you wearing high heels and red lipstick.

To you I would soon get a slap in the face. Forte. To let you blush.

Fastening squeezing the oil bottle in the eye. For pouring on the right shoulder.

And your eyes staring at me while the oil will flow back, between the breasts, buttocks dripping. To the ground.

to you with my hands, you spread the body. You

earthen his neck and picked up, you lie on the bed.
The empty bed and covered with a rag.

And you lying sideways on top of the bed, turning the skin with it the dirty window.

would open the heavy wooden shutters and lets the wind. I would leave
inflate the curtains.
would open the bottle of Jack Daniel's and sitting in a corner in the shadows, I would look to enjoy the wind.
I would look to blend into the air and flax.
and close my eyes at times to hear how God breathes life from your breasts. And then

. I'd go.
Tirandoti hair. There. On the bed.
Before I left for good.

---
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Sally - F. De André

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Gabbiani

do not know where the gulls have their nests, where are

peace.

I am like them in perpetual flight.

life touched

like being the water to catch food.

And as you may also love the quiet,

the great calm of the sea,

but my fate is to live

flashing in the storm.

V. Cardarelli

See Janam Kundli Online

Kabul killed -6 (nasty satirical)

• In Afghanistan there are so many attacks that in 2010 the number of battle deaths will surpass, for the first time, that of overdose deaths.

• Carnage in Kabul. Marchionne "We are saddened. We had already prepared the Alfa 147."

• To the heroes of 147, a monument to Mirafiori.

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attempt to improvise ways a late summer night ...

Black sky, do not listen.
I look without a word ...
The silence you like. Not
Your face to answer
not you ashamed of your shortcomings,
not interested in what I think of you
(I do not think anything good),
not interested in my singing.

not interested in anything, black sky!

're interested only your vanity!
I make a mockery of your vanity, you do not know
regret
my answers you did not.

black sky, I'm not your daughter,
my answers to try me,
black sky, do not listen ...
Never, never, never ...

August 23, 2009

Canned Chicken Broth Expires

X.08.09

A
Nerudova
Above the rooftops of Prague. Above all

spire of this northeastern European
violinist

dumb stick a piece of Hendel.

For 22 crowns
concept combines a hands

move around my hat. For


brought me here with nothing
on your face.

For 22 crowns
die in beauty
Nerudova.

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And then I wonder how long the children will take another Bohemian watch cartoons instead of the mole than American or Japanese. [...]
Dubček would say that could be done differently. That at least he had time to see the difference, sometimes abstract, between a regime imposed by tanks and imposed a more subtly with the dollar, the mark. The euro.
The Germans have even bought the Skoda: The factory. How
souvenir I brought 30 boxes of wafers Tatranky. Package type Loaker but much good. Only a few days later I noticed a brand a bit 'hidden Danone. Danone.
That have really got it all! Who have taken everything.

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On vacation from toil of life

On vacation from toil of life so I want to be

and forget

and forget and forget ...

All the labor of life!

***

again this year deserve the holidays have arrived! In a few hours delivery too! Staying away from the net and blog until early September! Greetings, then, all my blogger friends! You again in September! Happy holidays to all!!

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Prague Last Minute - Fossati

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Milan (flash light)

agghingherata Milan is a sewer. A
old bitch who calls himself well dressed escort.
Milan is the place where you have to pay to enter.
Milan make you make millions of interviews for jobs that do not exist, the ads are fake interviews. We need to do something to make young people more incompetent frustrated unemployed behind Gioffi and skirts. You knew when you give the tones menager. A friend of mine
individualist anarchist living in Milan since he took home the Navigli and did the master Pubblitalia. Now he is convinced that in his career and his monthly deficit is yes and no 30 €. It 's a dandy cocopro dress. Recently he spoke that he and his friends are constructing a small masonry to help each other.

In Milan you can not live. It gobbles up shit to turn it into energy.
In Milan we are all like bacteria. Unless

then find a sucker to marry and that the ports AMMILANO Sunday. And all week we go back to work.

And then you die. O Milan
you or you die.

Castelvolturno But, believe me, it is very bad in comparison.

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nocomment


thanks to http://www.nazioneindiana.com/

Pressure Pionts In Dog To Make Sleep

Your face stone

Your face stone, stone that has no face
;
and there are two lovers:
he does not know her face,
she does not know his face, nor the voice
nor the consistency of the body. But only

stone.
But only casually.
But only empty, in this story.

not a tear of a smile that would give meaning to nothing

that oppresses the breast of the two lovers,
without their souls.

Your stone face peering absorbed,
stone that has no face.

July 22, 2007

(how - much - has changed in two years! If I look back to those days and looked ... almost hard to recognize! The only evidence that remains are these verses ... )

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July 16

Naples
the evening seems to me that breathes. As if
cubic meters of oxygen from the pores
come out of this yellow tuff.

And the sea is silent three minutes

see the sun that melts inside.

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odg

That evening I went to the meeting of the party.
the agenda was another revolution.
I sat down. Surrounded by moccasins.
And I left.

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To lose time

Yesterday I bought the cable to the machine
adjusted
tomorrow today I buy the detergent wash my clothes tomorrow

three days between them will stretch them
will stretch ever.
One day I will deliver them. Then
them dirty again.
Life is made up for lost time.

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Your name, the last time Red Cross nurses

I pronounced your name again.
lips of fire And never for you.

you a cold kiss without lips. I delivered

suffered syllables in your name,
somewhat ungrammatical! In this six
reduced!
A miserable little pile of sounds without meaning.

vowels and consonants you have left!
And I say in the eternal misfortune of your name ...
I forgot while the syllables.
And at the end of the last letter ...
you were gone forever:
evaporated gaily in the air.

It appears that the substance would not be in your destiny!

One last time, after so long,
I said your name.
and I was not hurt.

No more lips of love for you.
No more blood for you lips.

June 20 2009

Western Cheeken Train

The appointment

Today

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Napolitano met Saviano

Napolitano received Saviano Capri

N: Roberto
S: President.
N: (from behind the 3-meter high windows with hands clasped behind his back) Sit down.
S: (sits) ...
N: ...
S: ...
N: ... (turns and looks into his eyes. Footsteps at the bottom) Finally! Roberto, M. Letizia!

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Napoli - Palermo 1

shirts.
One of the problems in Naples are the shirts. The average
Neapolitan wearing shirts unwatchable. Save
Naples.
Stop the import / export of shirts. Open a group on facebook. Indict a referendum.
Do something. Christ's sake.

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history of the emergence of

1. a delegate of the Holy Spirit teaches political scavengers in a dream
   
2. Financial Officer puts it in his pocket € 100 each scavenger scavengers
3. Palermo begin the skit
4. the Holy Spirit sent from Rome to San Guido solve the problem.
5. In 7 days there's no problem.
6. all the people in a renewed spirit, rejoicing and all the members in a single vibrato cheering 'Long live the King David!

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As written in the blog, I have enormous difficulty viewing my blog. This is a week that I can not see it ... could only post because I open the dashboard perfectly. From your comments I see that you managed to open it without difficulty. Many of you have told me that he recently had my own problems (apparently due to maintenance work on Blogger), but who managed to solve them. As I continue ... What can I do?

I do not want this situation lasts much longer, so I ask everyone of you to give me advice or tips to resolve this situation.

HELP!

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Technical Problems II (words such as Red Cross) Red Cross nurses

's cold the skin without the arch of his warm embrace,
is dead skin.
I get used to the idea and I die every night.
Oh, the fantasies are icy daggers that pierce the night,
sleep, nightmares, silence ... the life and words, words
, soothe ...
Words ... Red Cross is that soothe the absence of pain.

soul bare, and so I offer it to the world and solitude
magnanimous smiles at me ...

The mouth is hiding like a frightened puppy.
The mouth, the mouth ... a time ...
a time not too far belonged to me ...
but now has grown and can no longer recognize.

Oh, repressing anger makes fun of me ...
even anger offends me! What a joke!

Everybody, everybody dreams of love.
Ah, for many it is a shade of deep red, red blood
that are difficult to grasp leaves ...
Oh, like butterflies in flight and escape via
no network ever comes in providential rescue!

Who has courage to realize the words?
How many have the courage to take risks, to play this game?
To try to say live and real and honest and courageous human
after all ... how many?
Oh, I'm afraid to answer this question ...
but the heart knows, and knows the heart bleeds ...

too dead, now dead to hope to become healthy ... Nor
Red Cross knows how to treat words, even
... no ...

May 2008

(not a real poem, but a collection of thoughts and considerations ...)

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(or the glory of the poet)

Words, words such as Red Cross nurses come to my rescue:
claim to transform the evil of '
soul in poetic beauty,
that they can not give love yearned
least give the fame, prestige and the fame of the poet.

The items I looked after by good nurse, administering
alphabet rhyme
and rent spacious white sheets of A4 paper to vent
the unhealthy disease of love,
otherwise repressed.

are recovering poetic!
I leave the hard work of rationality,
damaged employment.

Oh, words! Red Cross
diligent with their starched collars,
heal me?

The Red Cross, the Red Cross as
words will soothe my illness?

July 6, 2008

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As Elizabeth

just felt right to let the sun set behind pastel.

I have never traced a path of steps walked.

I walked on the lawn wrapped in shadow,

a quite unreal, caressed by the troubled world of my heart.

I felt like Elizabeth ... but I'm not her.

rassomoglio I myself, am a creature of my own pen.

I walked alone in the garden,

between the old, withered cherry and olive trees;

huddled in my jacket ...

like a hug simulated.

I walked in circles a few minutes

sad

noting pleased and touched my loneliness.

The heart has cried, but who cares?

I lost my path of imaginary steps through the leaves;

the season is at dusk.

You are a lifetime away from me ... away, lost ...

looking for you behind the cherry conscious than ever, I'd never

appeared.

I walked in silence, alone with your spectrum.

breathed new quiet.

I deluded for a moment at Elizabeth rassomogliare ...

but this is my happy ending.

August 26, 2008

***

(this is the poem I wrote which are linked at all: for the moment in which it was written - and especially what happened shortly after - for the position of feeling that expresses pathos, the appeal to the literary character I love most Elizabeth Bennet of Pride and Prejudice . These verses I wrote them last year during their stay in my house: after a walk in the garden in front of the house, I had the feeling, I found similarities with the special atmosphere that is perceived in the final of the movie with Keira Knightley the same light - although I was at dusk and dawn is in the film - the same sweet solitude, the same poem in the air ... and I found to believe that Elizabeth is very similar or at least at that juncture. But as we have seen: I had no happy ending ...)

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Created: Eva Adam

I look at the man's eyes.
The man looks at my eyes.
For the first time.
The beginning, as the beginning of Creation.
He watches me, search me.
I observe, I scan the man.

know the same secret.

May 23, 2007

Warning! I have to leave the web for a few days due to the alleged failure of the computer ( read here), come back online as soon as possible!

Painting, Man, Woman Dancing

The dance of destruction

The Apocalypse.

Tremble.
Tremble.
Tremble.

Earth.
my heart.
The crying of babies.

Tremble.
Tremble.
Tremble.

Land dancer invites us to his banquet of death.
At its celebration of the pain.
the Last Judgement.

God help us.

rubble.
rubble.
rubble.

under rubble smothered the innocent blood of dust.
suffer the people guilty of nothing,
guilty because of a crazy geography that has no mercy:
extends his hand and destroys everything.

Babies do not cry anymore. If at least
cry ...
would be a cry of life, escape, salvation.
Babies do not cry anymore.

the earth trembles.
imprinted forever in the eyes of the horror,
impressed the noise in the ears, in the heart
impressed last breath.

rubble.
Another shake.
rubble.
Another shake.
Survivors.
Hope. A number of echoes
death.

The silence breaks my eardrums.
not a crying baby to give me back my life.
Where are you crying baby?
weep and cry that you are alive, do not give up in that rubble
demonic.

My head hurts. I
earthquake in the head, I
the earthquake in my heart, I
the earthquake in the eye.

God help us.

Why this tragedy?
What crime? Only a heartless
geography is guilty
but his mistakes will be paid by innocent people.

I look at yesterday, yet I knew nothing,
when the earth was our friend. I would go back instantly
innocence,
when I thought that the earth under your feet
I never would have passed away.
But now only an abyss of blood and dust sustains me.

Gaia, why have you abandoned?
Why are you trembling?

Death, you should not dare to take with your children,
they are not your friends, you killed their laughter.
Death, because you've got the innocent?
Death, you had cibarti of your misery.

Night.
the earth trembles.
Day.
the earth trembles.

Time is relative: the dance of destruction

punctuates the beat.

The Apocalypse,
dust,
blood
the ground shakes, trembles
the world, I do not feel anything
:
no noise in the middle of these noises.
There is only darkness.

The Apocalypse. It is the painful
reporter
are the witness, the wretched
are traumatized.
That roar broke my eardrums.
has stopped my heart hour tyrant.
has dried up rivers of tears.

Land dancer invited us to his dance of death. We
small pieces, we are overwhelmed
,
We are human beings.

Tremble.
Tremble.
still trembles the earth.
My God, stop it!
Have mercy on the innocent!
Punish this geography insensitive that there starving,
that harms us,
that kills us.

Time has stood still.

April 6, 2009

(verses inspired by the immense tragedy that has befallen these hours in the Abruzzo.'m Crushed by this tragedy, I tremble like a leaf. Why this, why? I spent the entire day listening to news, updates from the place of death of the disaster, watching those buildings devastated. I have no words to describe the horror. I think back at 3.32 when the earth shook: I woke up and for the first 30-40 seconds I did not realize what was going on ... I heard a terrible roar, I have not felt the bed shake, heard only the sound scary. It 's all too horrible.)

Big Bob's Granny Vidos

marble statue, a cold skin on

My back is cold, it's just a groove, it's just smoke, it is impalpable.
The white back, the skin is cool with me,
skin is cold on my skin.
The night is cruel and soulless.
the tears of desert arid and uncultivated.
's just smoke the memory, it's just a lie.
The white back is not on my side, it is impalpable illusion.
My skin is cold, as marble. That statue

happy, joyfully imprinted on a cold stare.

The skin is cold, it's so cool.

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Luna Bourbon Street

I became a creature of the moon.
No more day for me:
only the veil of the night to hide my misery.
Whose fault? Who is to blame for this fate?
Of the mistakes of a distant time ... Yet, around the corner,
an unhealthy love, madness, sold soul to the devil.
does not matter anymore, not more.

It 's like a sweet song, Gothic and elusive to tell my story:
listen and know everything, without that I should talk about it.
I just have to walk on this desolate road, bathed by the moon.
Listening to those magical notes ... let me drag as ...
I can not stop me, I must be here every night
to chase my wake below the fold of the moon,
with my pale face and a crowd with me ...

I crawl along this path and God is my witness:
know to be wrong and I repent and regret every night,
However, this is my destiny;
condemned to repeat it endlessly.

The endless pain of this if no love is
all happened long ago, as ever, as ever,
have been promised in this life, as a sacrificial lamb,
have been promised that drags me in the dark ...
I do not know, never again, the light of noon
is simply given me the light show at midnight.
A veil of coldness hides my bitter and beastly grin: I
the hands of sinful but the heart of a saint.
And my shadow is tainted by the shadow of the moon.

He, he, he ...
He walks every day along the streets of this city,
he is guilty, unworthy and contemptible.
I was waiting in his long, day, at night,
I waited long and painful, day and night fighting
my self-esteem, against reason, against the madness.
I prayed to the Immaculate Virgin, during the absurd expectation.
I loved what I was destroyed.
I destroyed what I loved.

I drag my poor limbs tormented every single night.
Maybe I will see, maybe you will see my shadow
a moonlit night breeze along Bourbon Street ...


(poetry inspired by the song Moon Over Bourbon Street Sting , a sort of remake! I read the text in the blog Sails / Ivy and from there, at his suggestion, the idea to write poems inspired by the suggestions generated by the song. This is the result: I find I have much in common with the gothic melancholy of the original text ...)

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Your senile childishness and my heart in rags


How could I imagine that was it the end?
How, how could I know ...
What is to blame?
Or rather, yes, even better:
of who is the crime?
of us has his hands guilty?
Who among us will be forever stained
of indelible shame?

Water, forgiveness, amnesia of the time that everything flows, everything
forget: wash away the insult.
carried away everything, every ... This

is my personal descent into hell.
Who had had a premonition? A coward
fate and dumb, unable
in his megalomania
to warn us before the
endless torments that awaited us.

And now inherit pain,
as they are miserable!

But imagine how all this?
on my hands and the unmistakable signs of humiliation;
and in your hands, your consciousness faceless
signs of lying, deceit ...
and this is too much, in heaven's name, too much for both!

taciamo now and we forget our miseries, joys
our alternatives.
Time will tear away the memory
return and new creatures, like a virgin
thought never thought about it. How
that dream ... just shut up.

Fate jokes, makes fun of us
behind us, certainly to my;
deception that has strained,
plotting its undisturbed plot.

A Picasso face, eyes and tears,
on my face in the mirror;
you walk bare-headed, head-
:
your senile childishness will be omitted
and your sin is hidden, concealed not only
to my heart,
to my heart ... or thing in his stead.

How could presage an epilogue so unworthy? How
intuit prematurely?
Shhhh ... this is the moment of contrition.
This is just mundane madness!
This is ... it was love!
Silence. That now, yes, it is now silent. I spoke too
:
now hide my shameful
hands and my heart in rags ... or thing in its place ...

September 17, 2008

(this is what is left of a born story wrong from the beginning, this is all that remains of a Year of Living Dangerously, this is the diary of many mistakes by not making anything, ever again, this is the bitterness of love ...)

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Woman, heroine of the world

Woman, eyes with dew, the arms of soft feathers, heart
sugar, iron will,
your solid body is the pillar on which rests the world.
In your veins flows the love flows like the Nile.
Donna, the mother of Life,
walk through the steps of your life, with difficulty, but with unwavering confidence
,
dispensing food where there is only misery.
's smile and spirit of sacrifice are your wrinkles
and you show her fair eye watching you,
the show as a decorative lace and roses with thorns.

ordinary woman, this is you heroin in the world because
express your courage in the reality of everyday heroism in those small
nestled in the folds of each day.
You are the example to your sisters:
when wars, suffering, evil exhausted
will teach you not to yield to the yield of the offense.

Donna, an artist, queen, worker, student, lover
hundreds of portraits of Ms. evoke your face.
But nobody really knows who you are:
that is a mystery that only you know.
you the many faces of nature and the immortality of the time. You
History teaches with wisdom, you are poetry. You

resistance to pain!
resistance to injury!
resistance to poverty!
resistance to injustice ... Oh, your thousand names!
Women, the signs on the palms are your struggles and your victories.
This world often do not deserve:
not understand, can not love you, do not know how to respect.
yet, you woman, proud and tall,
shouting your claims without fear!

Now, stop to look at the blinding brightness of the yellow mimosa ...
But stop to it: you're so much more!
and enables a new future to find you,
stretch out your arms and tilt your steps to tomorrow.
Women, the world is yours! Every Day Is Yours!
're the favorite daughter of this that we celebrate March 8,
but you are the favorite daughter every day, you're always
woman, do not forget,
and makes' your nature is a privilege every one of those days!
Take up the flag of your passion and your courage with pride!
Women, never forget your strength
makes you safe and impregnable fortress!

2009

(poetry on the theme of International Women's Day written for a literary competition)

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Rosa rosae II

The last rose that remains,
then I do not anymore. Yellow
.
yellow petal hand-painted,
-the-art,
prodigy with an intricate embroidery of silk.

Alone in a vase,
in undisturbed contemplation of self, of what was
.
Of what did not.
Never was. Never.

E 'the legacy of a floral gift
load of wonder and longing
shameful that I was offered.
E 'and the legacy of the unexpected surprise
thought of being a woman, me, whom tribute, as befits
, with typical attention
flowers.

My yellow rose. Only my
.
Portrayed in thousands of photos, pictures yellow.
It amused smile.

The first pink, my.
But it is also, perhaps, the last:
God knows if I will donate again?

The vanity of her tender pink yellow sticks,
as a star of silent films,
lonely in his water bowl.
the console with indulgent eye,
reassuring about his majesty, the
note with tenderness.
Youth disappears
be celebrated at the time and accompanied with a solemn face adult
seriously.
like the petals of my yellow rose, slipped into the rest
recently, very little ...

God knows if I will be donated to another, one day?

December 20, 2008

(yes, the only survivor of the rose of the poem "Pink Rose")