The following I wanted to define “loose thoughts”, not related, that is, to my paintings but from which, in some way and certainly, Many paintings were put up and suggested. Sometimes the paintings themselves have given birth and thoughts generated, without me I had full consciousness until the moment in which the images of the paintings have merged the words in my head and I realized. I realized that my life has always been permeated with colors and words, arising from vibrations that my innermost feelings or force me to give me, no I've never been able to escape the force, never free from pain and suffering, that has always inspired me to make a mark, on paper or canvas, my lived, a trace of my passage through the soul of the other and the other through my.


Along your profile
they walked my thoughts
even before I knew
who I,
while, spellbound,
lost in the mind of the wire
of old and false desires
even before you knew
who I.
un'alba an ad tramonto
and pinned on the horizon
of my life
in the moment
you promised me your,
and while, inadvertently,
I fell forever in your eyes,
fragments of ice
sciogliesti forever in my.
Along your profile
Follow my thoughts
and the desire
to meet again.


I do not know how long I miss you,
how many days of you does not remain, in my mind,
that a sequence of images that, quickly,
are repeated with weary thoughts.

Pictures of you, fan says so long, perform,
in the space of a moment, in a detailed projection
Silent, on the screen of my emotion,
and always start again, clonandosi, and do not end.

I do not know what happens to my senses exasperated
while interrogated me regret the absurd
last caress sweet, the first note of a song
that finds you away, over a thousand kisses dreamed.

Night falls on my sadness restless,
a night full of excitement wasted and evaporated
through a bitter sweat, wait vitrified
in an exhausting vigil irreducible and that worries me,

tearing the veil, already meager, of my patience
shreds of anger and silent cries of resentment.
The slow time pulling the chariot of hours,
grazing the minutes with his forgetful efficiency,

and leaves me time to conjure up old ghosts and fetid
that look out of your absence on my heart
and I talk about a hole in love
che mi manca, of its ephemeral orgasms.

In this welter of emotions, I do not know when you come back,
Not that dove, nor with, before DISSOLVE
in another dimension I'll grant you that still
to return to ask, and do not know, when tornerai.

But life, in squalid contradictions in his parade,
lies the seed of a lucid and irrefutable logic
Which brings me, before you die, time point ineluctable
where I know how many times you've gone and if ever you come back.

For now, back another night
everything else swallows.


Se rinascessi,
would be in a spring night
full of crickets,
under millions of stars
pinned on the black velvet
an enchanted sky.
Rinascerei color
email me vestirei Aurora
to come and wake.

I would tell you
of all the lives you've lived with you,
of all the times in which,
do not expect it to die
to meet you again,
although only a memory.

I'd tell you
that the memory has made me die of nostalgia
for me to be born again
and return to wrap your heart,
before yet another life.

You wake up
to tell you about all the lives that
I fell asleep with you,
clinging to your breath
who became my,
clinging to the beat of your heart
that marked the time of my joy,
and that eased my pain.

I would tell you
I still miss the life with you
and I wish that more of the other,
life in which
clinging to your fears,
the suffocate forever.

Se rinascessi,
wrapped in a March night,
pierced by millions of stars,
that the first rays of your eyes
I melt the frost on the face,
I undressed from the thrill of anguish
I lurks in the soul,
when you're not there.

In this continuous motion and perpetual
of my thoughts,
gear in this rhythmic and cyclic
that renews the life and death
in a space and in a time unlimited,
scorgo, perhaps, the sense of eternity
and surely find the way
of my love for you.


on the palette of my life,
colors and words,
encrusted with neighboring and improbable escapes,
losing the memory of shady and wet desires
is, with your fingers,
not to paint yourself.
But it is slow work,
developed the desire
and infinite patience.
Painting with words your colors
and those words you do not say
is to risk failure
and drown in the hope to succeed.
the light and shade of your thoughts, hidden
multicolored veils behind
of insights and regrets,
is the dream that remains in the balance
between reason and passion.
on the border of a small surreal normality,
light shots of your excitement
charges and black shadows of your fears
is the risk of falling
from a word
in a universe of unknown tones and inflections
waiting in ambush
my astonishment
to make shreds of despair.
Paint you with words
is the risk of going mad
in an attempt delicate and fragile
compress into a verb
a storm of emotions
which contains not even a scream.
Painting with words
this love
is exciting and exhausting
the reverse process
that, the nuance of every moment,
virtuous and meticulous,
surreale e iperreale,
wants to get to you,
real and vital
you do shady and damp desire
on the palette of my life,
to revive,
without shame,
colors and words.


Bears the marks of a curse
this move to make,
all this masochistic undo
only to die and constantly rimorire.
Bears the marks of a life suffered
all this
passive witness to the events,
swapping desires
with small companies inconclusive,
while the moon is moving further away,
increasingly prohibited.
As travelers
bored and tired,
the oldest dreams
overlook the eyes
to look at the time
which turns into slow tolling
all the terrible banality
a world of acrobats.


It rains hard and dense,
inside of me
a pain that clones the pain.
E quel pomeriggio of estate,
I tore the life
from life,
clones himself
in my every thought
playing and laughing out loud to me
and my littleness,
huge hole in my heart
that, since,
takes only half.
E, since,
it is always afternoon,
è estate always,
is always nothing…
where nothing is the same as nothing,
me neither.


Desperate is the game,
without or losers, no winners,
under the sky
embracing a point in the sky,
a mole on the face of the infinite.
My face
becomes just a sign on the wall,
a graffiti incomprehensible
on the surface of life.
Desperate is the game
nails me to the table that none of the thousand
while I hold the cards
Facci carte false and per sleep,
to delete one more day,
per rammendare the ennesimo buco
in this silly sock life.
Meanwhile, it is Christmas,
you day and night and snow
and the darkness in his eyes,
where the echo of an image
esplode and volunteer your,
together with the cap of a sparkling wine,
to go to touch the mouth of a doubt.
Midnight is
together with her sisters acid and trivial,
complicit silence of my true,
enemy of my gasps,
indifferent to the sweet songs
that, in the middle of the heart, dance alone.
In the meantime
midnight goes
and children do not fall asleep
and, eyes open in the dark bullet,
waiting for tomorrow,
come me,
to unwrap the gifts under the tree,
come me,
to discard my real life
closed in a lot of lies.


Yellow campaigns quilts red,
spread with sun
flowers and kissed by unforeseen.
Sudden laughter
they attack and bite my memory,
caressing and offendendola
as in an embrace
that comes from eternity,
where things do not end
but are transformed.
Blue morning
yawn and fragrant coffee,
made of pajamas inside out
e voci smoke.
Images and unmistakable sounds
I reach
from unimaginable depths of my blood
that is mixed with the life
someone who belongs to me,
giving life and reason to life itself,
and the reason
is that of a song
initiated by always.
The bark just perceived
a dog away
is the harbinger,
just perceived,
the jarring that there will be,
the song that will change,
which will turn
in a slow lament,
off by the wind
that breaks up the pleasure
and let the pain
to swell the heart.
Black nights spent stars
colors and loves,
unclean thoughts as insects,
cut out
one of my old smile for you
and the project
contro opaque moon.
I look like the photo,
become chalk
and, from my eyes the glass,
sling my soul
to seek your,
transformed, per caso,
in the scent of the sea
or in blue aurora full of stars.


Exhausting expectations
m'invadono the night and steal me
while search
and I lose myself in the usual phrases,
and I find myself living
just whispered in those
or just think
numb in the cold for another night,
it gets the sun.

But how much sun it will take
to dissolve the salt,
nodes in the stomach,
needles in the temples ?

Estrane Frusciante
of sheets
tear the silence,
tear my soul
in a myriad of confetti,
as in the most festive of Carnivals,
where colorful masks
and laughter paper
confuse my face with that of other,
with nothing.

Exhausting expectations
come together in my bed,
under my pillow
and I rummage in the heart,
Now detaining a few beats,
now scandendone the hectic pace.
I cling tight to a dream
and in my eyes, wide open in the dark,
are reflected
very hot lakes of chocolate
and golden glow,
while, from remote distances,
back to my old smile
draw me to her lips.

I stand
and breathless
under a rain of thoughts
that will fill,
and my pores hatch
per dissetarsene.

Slowly, imperceptibly,
the night melts
and the light reassembles,
evocandoli almost from nowhere,
shapes and colors
and approached me,
without malice and blackmail,
a moment
that has all the flavor of a lifetime
and still.


I am looking anxiously
to pull myself behind this unknown
without you,
while four beautiful notes,
run away from singing
fond of a madman,
I pierce my hands
that do not paint more
because there is nothing to paint,
if you're not here.
I am looking for
I walk along the streets
one that will take me from you
and here perhaps,
around the corner ...,
but around the corner someone is looking for me,
and, curse, you're never.
The notes that assail me
I am now a thousand
and fled from the song of a thousand fools,
part of their wonderful,
infinite love and unfulfilled,
and are looking for me to kill me again,
with their sweet melody
who speaks only of you and us
in a world that is just a step,
but beyond the glass of the compromise.
Mille note,
that you send
Carefully and jealously wrapped
the hottest of my thoughts
that will always be what you want;
my thoughts
I devour it belongs only to you,
while of those notes you'll dress
to expect around the corner
that sooner or later svolterò,
to meet you again
and to find out
that those notes
are the sound of your voice
when I say that your life
and mine
have only one thing.


Expect the world reformat,
I look forward to that life stops away from me by the hands
and eyes
while still shreds of my existence
you lose
chasing those old songs
who will not listen more,
and disappear
along with the scent of flowers,
the smoke of the candles,
inconsistency of a photograph.
But I look forward to,
that life flowing back into me,
as a long-dammed river
unspeakable despair,
and that overflows with laughter that does not stifle the memories
but understand them
and avoid that looks pretty small
of melancholy and pain.
Attendo te, then.
returning from the worst of storms,
Castaway on the golden beach of your skin,
hoping that my life,
we recover in your hands
and can still quench your hottest looks.
I want you
without shame or modesty
and inside you,
you're my life,
shall find life
and the immense pain that overwhelms me
and tattered that hide behind veils of impassivity,
you sopirà
as a burning ember in the ashes