The Genoa I know is that without a Thousand Faces face. That because of unanswered, because without the answers. The city faces lit, spice merchants, the harbor, the port, hands dirty, calloused, who know tobacco, touching deep into the gaping mouths of young women from broken heart. The city of mouths who drink milk without a father able to comfort tears. This is my town, his memory remains within my thoughts. Genoa, the one I know, I do not know what it is all the roads that I have seen waving drunk, who saw me fall and then get up. There are stones on which I banged my face, without shedding a drop of blood, where I doubled over foul-mouthed, weak knees, her hair caked with vomit and spices.
The streets are everything and nothing at the same way I have everything and nothing. The first memory goes back to the stoned streets of smells, spices and incense of a thousand directions, local voices, dialects, foreign voices who beat this piece of heaven, which seems suspended above the fingers of a thousand hands, stretched only by a soffio, un pezzo di cielo pronto a cadere, a rovesciare l’ordine delle cose. La strada è la puttana più bella del mondo, ogni sera percorre la sua passerella, protagonista della notte, filtrata tra le voci, negli ultimi passi prima dell’alba, tagliuzzata da un groviglio di lame, da spiragli di luce, dove una carezza è allo stesso tempo uno schiaffo, una parola che andrà a conficcarsi in mezzo alle costole, per scarnificare e sfilacciare la carne del cuore.
Il caos è tutto quello che porto in dono, perché altro non c’è nelle mie tasche. Sono tasche bucate con pochi spiccioli, tasche ripiene di desolazione. La mia solitudine, la tua solitudine che sfiora una parola non detta, una parola whispered, licking without conscience.
0 comments:
Post a Comment