It's been a while, quite a long one, since I picked up my pen and wrote
something on the paper.
I'm doing it now. It feels so good.
I remember Christian loved to look at the world and let the mind freely
form verses… it wasn't poetry but it looks like it was and he's filled
hundreds, no thousands, of sheets with fragment of life. He hasn't done it for
years and now that I'm dead and recovering those silly shining fragments of
living glass pop up when I don't want. I thought I've grown older…and become a
better poet.
Just a moment ago
a little bird unknown
rested outside my window
An active short shadow
While the city there down
Wakes up and start to go.
It was just a moment ago.
I'd forgotten how wonderful it was…
There are bottles scattered all over this room; I've felt so empty at
times. I consider myself a weak for letting those bottle stand between me and
my life. What else I can do though? I'm hunted by my own dreams and when the
burning greenness enters me it's like a firework exploding, but like every
fireworks it's short lived and suddenly dies. I've blamed my friends for
drinking; now they're the one who blame and who try to rip the bottle from my
fooled grip.
This page is filling with nonsense, so I'll try and order my thoughts,
while they're still out of reach of the toxic charming green liquid that fills
the glass on my left side. It's nine o'clock now and the city is living again
under my window. I want to stop time! 'Cause it can only get worse and worse.
I've seen her this morning, last sparkle of the moon. I told myself it was she
I saw, but probably I was only staring at my favorite mirage, playing with me
again.
My heart still bleeds but now, sometimes, it gives my a break and I can
stand up from the bed without retching on the floor and feeling as if my soul
was being torn from everyone of my bones and muscles by a hungry wolf.
My friends, the few I still have, have tried to pull me out of my shell.
They bring me the paper and food and fresh water. They treat me like an ill
man. I'm not ill. I'm dead. They laugh and say that I only look like I'm
dead and that I've so much to give to the world and to get from it in return
that I've to live, for the world's sake.
I look like I'm dead, and I feel dead inside…our looked like the most
perfect love in the world, it was… I've filled sheets with it, with the silly
love songs you said to hate but that I've heard you hum when you thought I
wasn't listening…who was the fool then?
I've filled sheets with dreams,
dreams of us dancing in the sky,
of me never shy,
of the time passing by
with us walking on a way
Singing 'Come what may'
Until our last day.
Now there's no joy
You're so far away
The moon lost its way
And I myself decoy.
I don't know for how long I will keep writing, but if I'm putting myself
on this paper, I'm not surrendering to the avid impulse of beating me with the
hypnotic ever moving greenness within my reach. And I will drug myself with the
impression I'm talking to you.
I hope you don't mind…God why you gave man memory! I want you not to
think about it…what are you writing Christian?! This is rubbish!
I hope you don't mind, Precious,
If I sound a bit fool here but, like every crazy man, you're the
sweetest way of killing myself and I want you to be with me, in a way or the other.
I remember how angry I was at that…man… touching you, wanting you, longing for
your presence, inhaling your perfume and playing with the soft curls of your
hair. Passion sounded within me like perfidious violins and a chorus of
Christians called your name; my sight foggy for the anger and the ardor could
only perceive the sparkles of your dress. Ah…the past is the past and I'm not
going to bring you back to me with this rubbish I'm writing.
I'm not Orpheus.
But if I were
I'd come where you are
And save you from the dark
Not to let you become
Only a memory in the dust.
Someone's knocking, sorry dear, I'll be back in a moment.
It was Jack, no you don't know him, I don't know him myself! He's the
son of a friend of my father, or something like that. He's recognized my style
- do I have a style?! - in the latest songs of the Moulin…I've sold four songs
after you…left, just to eat and to pay the bills. Now that you're no more here
with your icing warm eyes, looking at me while I'm writing, the rare sheets I
fill are a treasure I don't want the world to see. They've already stolen my
most perfect creature.
Look! There are birds outside the window! They sing…but you were the
best.
It's midday but my stomach is not murmuring so I won't stop writing, not
now, even if the world crushed into the sun and the stars started raining from
the sky. I simply can't stop, I feel you so near now I want to shout for the
joy. There's an echo of cancan in this room. Of course! I'll tell everybody the
stories behind the best spectacle in the known world! My forehead is bathed in
sweat but I don't care. The burning liquor descends inside my body, lightening
me up. You and this drink are pulling me to my grave but I don't mind.
I can barely see the paper now, it's four thirty and the bottle is
empty, its glass scattered on the floor with other glasses. Sorry dear, I fell
from our stairway to heaven again. But I know you'll be patient and wait for
me, just a step further from me to encourage me.
Why did you leave?
You wanted me to feel
Pain and sorrow all my life?
Your lips acted like a knife
On my poor soul of boy
Fooling me with false joy.
Why didn't you ask?
Stoic keeping up your mask
Now I can only see you at dusk
Dancing in the dead shadows
Through enchanted meadows
Where other wretched wait
To have with love a date.
I hate you! Like I hate my own body and soul, so weak now, so painfully
conscious of the cold world!
These are my last words to you, beloved.
You let me see the sky, and I believed that in this world, there was a
blade of celestial light for us.