Giulio Malcangi

The Pirate

 

I stumble
till the end of the day, 
sponge, 
filled with the humidity, 
that i assimilated.
 
The Parakeet mocks, 
unwittingly, 
every profanity heard 
on this Ship.
 
I rest 
on the crest, 
of the ups and downs,
maritime and emotional.
 
Waves smash 
and the hull 
bursts them off 
the deck, 
like rain, 
refreshing my pain 
and solitude. 
 
My steps, 
scanned to death, 
by the wooden ticking 
of my leg: 
prosthesis 
of my escaping wishes.
 
“Is this the moment to stop, 
ponder 
and regret?” 
I succeed to whisper. 
To myself. 
 
The moon's full 
The Night 
is a drunk gloom. 
 
Subalterns 
of subalterns 
snore, 
nasal and guttural, 
echoing 
through Neptune's abode. 
 
Loves, 
from past life. 
They materialize indelible, 
cast on that cloud, 
cinema of memories 
of my imagination. 
 
Love exists 
because of Hate. 
 
“And only God 
knows 
How much i hate you..”
 
I whisper again 
 
“..Peter Pan!”


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