Poetry: Collection By Gabriella Garofalo
By Gabriella Garofalo
Dejection, such a bloody waste of time,
You’d better throw dreams, whims and words
To the sky, he’s feeling poor
So he’ll end up collapsing on us,
And we done in a wink, aren’t we lucky dogs?
Please don’t fret, so many already gone,
Reckless ramblers, women in love with modern art,
Limping girls, ponytailed front men, you name it -
As for me I always travel light,
Cheap dreams and a tawdry life in my rucksack:
Mine was the strength that made them possible,
Crossing the border always an easy task,
I’m not joking, you learn fast when slaps and danger
Hide in ambush, too fast perhaps -
Oh, and don’t believe the naysayers with their
‘Stones have no soul’, ‘cause they have -
I saw it on the day the old scamp shook them to death,
I saw the barren stares, the arms stretched out to the dawn,
The endless whys no one cared for, then the corpses,
That’s what I saw as I was standing by the window
Waiting for hope to come along,
And come along she did, a frail egg white
Useless against angular features
And women sporting black robes, funny headgears -
But I’m a girl of all trades, when running errands
I’ll give them a deferential smile and wait for the weekend,
When close to my bed I’m going to find
A bright mood and my gopher the fire -
Where are the men, wild orchids, by the by?
Let’s not forget, the problem with lindens
Is they smell too sweet -
Of course soul faints and her nostalgia runs
To the far left of the sky, she knows
Evil and good never change bodies, only garments -
Are they naked, getting sharp, chasing you? -
The trees you already saw, they were invading water,
So she goes even right now:
Rumours she spreads, first roots she hisses,
Your first roots I mean, you waiting for opals or corals -
Your turn -
Shout names shout stares
Your turn trust me -
So bright is fear no voice she can freeze -
And maybe you fall down, maybe not,
But leave it alone -
Give only stares to the green of the trees
Should he ask what you’ve got,
Should he ask what you think,
Should he ask for rain or weather forecast -
You’ve got snow in your pocket, so let lust
Deal with stupid questions -
Does she like it, by the way?
Nope, mostly it’s a matter of money.
They say it was a place of colour, mostly blue -
Those who hang out there called it death -
What foolish name -
Where the hell is she now?
As usual, wasting time with nail art,
Blokes all muscles and Electra Glide
Don’t they get rusty those shears, Atropos, right?
They close to you, bit too close for your likings?
They mobbing you those grubby sisters, those women?
Look now, don’t get too picky, even the grass is a woman,
All sparks on Sunday morning when your gaze falls on her -
Is she in love? Maybe -
Or maybe it’s your gaze
When he simply leaves and dies.
Gabriella Garofalo is a writer from Milan, Italy.
"I think I'm a wordsmith, in love with words, engaged in an endless effort to giving a decent shape - I hope so, at least - to my obsessions, my losses, my many shadows."
On Her Work:
"The less the reader knows the better:-) As for my inspiration, it's simply my powerful desire to answer to the questions my life has been rife with ever since I was a child."
On Female Creators:
"Well, as a female creator I believe that I can send my words as wandering pilgrims that are looking for a shelter: whoever gives them shelter can look at them and establish a bond with them. Words are powerful, maybe more than life itself and bonds can endure for life."
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