L'intellettuale da asporto

No devotion to the objects that no longer belong to us the memory stands on its own. It is necessary to lighten the husband’s compartment honor widowhood wiping off the excess prints with the marks of fingertips and the sweat in the shoes. She’ll throw out the jackets and the knock-off collar hangers. Not blowing away the dander from the comb is as ridiculous as the thought of his hands in the gloves. She realizes that images evaporate: she will save the photographs. She starts to talk to the face she’s ashamed; those portraits deceptive in their familiarity her husband’s eyes posed for the photograph barely chip the glass. The memory stands on its own   in the photo it is she who steps aside. Il lato destro dell’armadio Nessuna devozione per gli oggetti che non ci appartengono più la memoria sta in piedi da sola. Bisogna alleggerire lo scomparto del marito onorare la vedovanza cancellando le impronte superflue ...

The eighty-year-old women that plod along with their grocery carts and scramble on the sidewalks their souls clinging to the breath that ballasts them on the orbital floor a remote control that drags them from home to the market from the market to home they seem to crumble with every heel stroke on the stone paving chosen by the mayor. You say this is it now they’ll fall and go to dust without complaining or have time to invoke the Madonna like my grandfather pierced by a mattress iron. But he was a boy and he could die. They on the other hand won’t die they swore it when they closed the door before setting out on their adventure amid blank looks and abuses fired off by thirteen-year-old wise asses. If you make the mistake of going near them they give you advise about investing   the economic crisis is a Judas’s trick to bring to power phony invalids psychology is shit for fools whose sex is shriveled between their thighs lis...

Voglio dire quella dei ritratti le foto che conservano soltanto  le frasi cadute nell'intercapedine non il volto e neanche l'acconciatura  dico le parole negli spazi bianchi sono stato                    e allora                                   non guardarmi                                                 le stesse frasi svogliate e il dettaglio:  gli zigomi che bruciano le scintille  dei tacchi sulla pista da ballo  - chi sbagliava le note chi ha  buttato le scarpe - le stesse frasi le linee dei nomi che disegnano  il tuo volto raschiato dall'immagine tu disperso nel click scivolato  sul bordo illeso della cornice  Aprile 2017, per Domenico e Incoronata       ...