You'll BeYou’ll be, to me a knowledgeable cledonist as inseparable as a sly aspirator and an heedful respirator like an ogress in my nightmares an orchestra in my dreams a dreamlike twinning every time You’re by my side but you love the kingdom of truth the spacing lived by the Concrete expiry dates for interior finishing and punctually forget how castrating it can be to see in the gut of a ceiling just some wooden planks, nothing else and not a starry night in the Amazon of when, finally barefoot we’re warmly embracing our exoticism it isn’t usually like that that I’m use to placing the accents over my heart TypoWith lavender-tinted scruple I get undressed, get rif of good manners I run towards the thyphoon I’ve already seen these eyes in the braids the void left in me I mean: deciphering intricancies isn’t it the rite of passage the chance to experiment to investigate what keeps us alive All I know is that I discerned the infinity in a drop of ink Amenitiesbrooding on the unmissable quarry-turned-natural smile of yours I groped your plus-sized heart so I could feel your fire cooped up in your overhear when you drool overnight that’s punchy syrup for monologues I recorded in my chest when I was musing over the novelty of another day passing bye so that your rest would still be at mine the ever-evolving flip side of an amenity scaring me so much: will this love I feel implode one day for you to stay safe to offer you repair when the world will be awake? FiestaOn the pelvic floor, they’re making cocktails my contentedness protrudes, some times I yell, make weird sounds, an ancestral bliss getting out of my diaphragm an euphoria enlarged by the wind a cartilage keeping together my uproarious curiosity and life cruelty when the breach is done I’m susceptible to immortality I need a party to be thrown towards the survival of my enjoyment I look at the sky, mirroring my intestinal infinity I’m a drop of boundless blessings an endoparasite triumphing in the Creation I hatch new wishes, every day and of my fiesta there shall be no end Batesian MimicryI didn’t curl up tightly my sleeves, didn’t wanna work nor had amatriciana with pig cheeks wasn’t struck by algebra but by the round openings in Emmenthal cheese created by their gases emission my sister and I used to get lost in sourdough tunnels we would fizz having wine without awaiting Eucharist It’s always the right time to fight off-color horizons whatever the destination is whatever sound is meant to be this cacophony we feel. Aldo Quagliotti is an Italian poet living in London, UK. He's the author of Japanese Tosa (London Poetry Books) and Confessions Of A Pregnant Man (Alien Buddha Press). His poems have been rewarded in Italy, Brazil, USA, Canada, Ireland and in the United Kingdom. He has been selected for important anthologies such as Paper therapy,Yawp!, The Essential anthology, Murmurations, Poetical Word, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus. Several webzines and magazines have published his work, such as INNSÆI, U-rights, Credo espoir, Parouisia , Poetica Review and many more. In October 2020 He has been chosen to represent the Poetry Corner at the London Chelsea + Kesington Art Week.
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