written during a sleepless night..
Not even scaring the black spider beneath the bed foot;
Look at him spinning his web and crawling downwards
As if the carpet is a magical place
where dangers and lions are locked in cages.
Oh, there it goes! The little sweetheart is smashed
by the cracking sole of a leather shoe.
My legs are stretched out over the bed,
Long and sculptured – they contain an enormous amount of power,
Don't you see the strength with which the veins of my feet beat?
These legs could rap up a lover and hold him
until the last breath became entirely mine.
From above, my feet seem almost unrecognizable,
as if they were attached to some dead women's body.
It's past 3 am; jump from page to page, never finishing the last line,
as if the end could not contain the essence of the title -
One can feel my neuroses ejaculate from the pen;
At least in that I've learned to be masculine.
My hands turn blue and my fingers tighten their grip,
As if I could hold on to words - I have no skills to hold on to people;
If only I'd have been a smoker, I'd light a cigarette
And fall a sleep, next to the corpse of my little smashed sweetheart...
Poetry by Francesca Lucca
Read 834 times
Written on 2006-11-22 at 00:22
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The smashed little sweetheart
Laying silently, as if carefulness is required to breath,Not even scaring the black spider beneath the bed foot;
Look at him spinning his web and crawling downwards
As if the carpet is a magical place
where dangers and lions are locked in cages.
Oh, there it goes! The little sweetheart is smashed
by the cracking sole of a leather shoe.
My legs are stretched out over the bed,
Long and sculptured – they contain an enormous amount of power,
Don't you see the strength with which the veins of my feet beat?
These legs could rap up a lover and hold him
until the last breath became entirely mine.
From above, my feet seem almost unrecognizable,
as if they were attached to some dead women's body.
It's past 3 am; jump from page to page, never finishing the last line,
as if the end could not contain the essence of the title -
One can feel my neuroses ejaculate from the pen;
At least in that I've learned to be masculine.
My hands turn blue and my fingers tighten their grip,
As if I could hold on to words - I have no skills to hold on to people;
If only I'd have been a smoker, I'd light a cigarette
And fall a sleep, next to the corpse of my little smashed sweetheart...
Poetry by Francesca Lucca
Read 834 times
Written on 2006-11-22 at 00:22
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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