(Misera e stupenda città 2013)

Arrival, Departure


And there will your heart be also

And there will your heart be also

(Misera e stupenda città 2013)



(Misera e stupenda città 2013)

Published in: on July 13, 2013 at 20:13  Leave a Comment  
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Rome a labyrinth of guttering lights. Flickering, never quite aflame, but for the remnants coming still and going floating across the cobbled streets, their wisping back and forth from the Castel Sant’Angelo, those flames that would sputter out and stop sometime around the 19th century.

(An awareness of the burnings at best obscure now in autumn’s crisp seams of smoke, glimpsed maybe but to remain unprocessed passing the grim unintentional irony of the bars that belt this once Field of Flowers, that flame against the cold and damp)

The guttering amber light of Rome. Resin-like, seductive it is somnambulist.

Prenoon announcements

– New figures say: Rome for the rich & for criminals
– Parliament rejects measure to have its salaries lowered
– Factory Occupied, Taranto – involuntary vacation for 5,000
– Approx. 90 billion Euros in evaded tax per year
– Student strikes continue, highschools occupied
– One woman killed every two days in “domestic” violence
– What does it matter really whether Renzi or Bersani?
– 15,000 less children born in 2011
– National strike on Thursday (24 hours)
– Gemelli Hospital on strike
– 34% of Italian youth unemployed according to some statistics
– Italy 3rd highest tax rates in Europe after Sweden, Denmark
– 350 million tons of Rome’s trash to be “exported” to other EU countries in 2013
– Black eyes, hash pipes & postcards of the vanished city at the tram terminus below the gauze November sky funereal


Nur wenn in Rom eine so goettliche Anarchie und um Rom eine so himmlische Wuestenei ist, bleibt fuer die Schatten Platz,
deren Einer mehr wert ist als dies ganze Geschlecht

– Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767 – 1835)
“Rom laesst sich nicht vergleichen”


Only when in Rome such a godly anarchy reigns and around Rome such a heavenly wilderness, will space for the shadows remain, which is worth more to one than this entire age


& he awoke
With Helen in his head

But before
Him’d been that terror    infinite space

Published in: on November 19, 2012 at 16:39  Leave a Comment  
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At home

The windowless room: an afterthought. And the light it came, when it came, in shards. Slow like the white dust (the dead) it settled over the green ceramic tiles ending just above the kitchen sink. One street from the station, if you stretched your head from the balcony, you could see the lines. Ideal. Two types of terminus: station and cemetery (but at night the one it glowed up from out of its heart, over the walls, aglow). Now and again, voices through the drainpipe above the toilet that finished outside the window. Often, in the mornings, the body’s sounds through each wall.

Last two weeks

17/07 – 28/10/2012

at Galleria d’arte moderna

In mostra 104 opere appartenenti alle due importanti collezioni
di BNL “Cinquanta pittori per Roma” e “Cinquanta pittori per Roma nel 2000”.

Giuseppe Capogrossi, Ponti sul Tevere

Fragment of a queen

A heavy, humid day at September’s end an old tobacco and sweat encrusted queen crookedly alights from the backseat of a car and shuffles across the white piazza. Middle-aged to twilight, says, “I know why he’s pulled open his chest in all those pictures, his heart there.” Stops. Lights a long cigarette and the filter brushes, catches upon a faint film of stubble. “If only she’d die and let me get on with it. I’d finally have space to breathe. She’s always had the window.” The sun-struck roses in the municipal amphorae cracked, she wondered if that vampire was still behind the glass. At the cinema, over on the Corso. Was it even there anymore? Lord, what a sight. Black stringy hair thinning, couldn’t even take up much of the dye, tattooed up to the chin, cheap heavy rings. Only claim to fame coming in black-and-white in some film, in New York supposedly, smack-lidded eyes, a good looking cock. Would she make it? In any event, he wouldn’t have anything to spare, surely.

Not even noon yet, too hot.

Somewhere back behind her, up the Pincian Hill, back over the dead ground behind the Villa Borghese. A hot-air balloon, stitched with stars.